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DEVELOPMENT 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


LANGUAGE 


BY 


ALFRED  H.  WELSH,  A.M. 

MEMBER  OF  VICTORIA  INSTITUTE,  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL  SOCIETY  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 
AUTHOR  OF  “ESSENTIALS  OF  ENGLISH,”  “COMPLETE  RHETORIC,”  ETC. 


VOLUME  I 


All  profitable  study  is  a silent  disputation  — an  intellectual  gymnastic;  and  the  most 
improving  books  are  precisely  those  which  most  excite  the  reader.  ...  To  read  pas- 
sively, to  learn,— is,  in  reality,  not  to  learn  at  all. — Sir  William  Hamilton 


NINTH  EDITION 


CHICAGO 

S.  C.  GRIGGS  AND  COMPANY 
1888 


Copyright  1882 


By  S.  C.  GRIGGS  AND  COMPANY 


KNIGHT  & LSi:iARD  .1 


,'}• '■<  D.  HILL 


TO 


\ J U u. 

!%h% 


N.l 


GOVERNOR  CHARLES  FOSTER. 


Dear  Sir: — Not  the  least  of  our  national  glories  are  the  literary  remains 
of  the  best  of  our  public  men.  At  a period  when  the  general  literature  of 
the  country  was  the  contempt  of  Europe,  our  statesmen  wrote  in  the  Eng- 


council,  and  the  splendid  succession  of  intellect  in  action  mounted  to  its 
grandest  development  in  the  triumvirate  of  Calhoun,  Clay,  and  Webster. 
Nor  latterly  has  that  noble  lineage  failed.  Seward  and  Sumner  have  illus- 
trated elegant  scholarship  in  the  trustees  of  power.  Within  a few  years, 
historians  and  poets  have  represented  us  in  foreign  courts,  while  others  — 
notably  the  lamented  Garfield  — have  carried  the  world  of  ideas  into  that 
-of  catch-words  and  party  habits.  In  this  there  is  cause  to  rejoice.  It 
signifies  that  we  are  gravitating  in  the  ideal  direction ; that  art,  sentiment, 
and  imagination  are  dividing  favor  with  trade  and  government.  It  means 
the  gradual  uplift  of  the  Republic  towards  the  high-water  mark  of  culti- 
vated mind  — catholicity  of  thought,  sensibility,  and  practice.  By  culture 
we  become  citizens  of  the  universe.  The  work  of  the  scholar,  less  liable  to 
be  partisan,  is  more  apt  to  be  in  the  interest  of  civilization,  based  not  upon 
class-feeling,  but  on  broad  grounds  of  general  justice.  Nations  are  not 
truly  great  solely  because  of  their  numbers,  their  freedom,  their  activity. 
It  is  in  the  conjunction  of  fine  culture  with  sagacity,  of  high  reason  with 
principle,  that  the  ideal  of  national  greatness  is  to  be  placed.  Only  thus 
can  America  stand,  as  she  is  privileged  to  do,  for  the  aspirations  and 
future  of  mankind. 

The  paths  proper  to  the  statesman  and  the  artist  can  rarely  coincide, 
but  they  may  often  touch:  and  because  I have  pleasure  in  this  tangency 
of  pursuits  which  promises  to  organize  literature  into  institutions,  tending 
thus  to  their  refinement  and  expansion, — I also  have  pleasure  in  the 
inscription  of  these  volumes  to  your  Excellency,  who,  amid  the  absorbing 
cares  of  business  and  the  arduous  realities  of  office,  have  never  become  the 
slave  of  material  circumstances,  nor  ever  been  found  wanting  in  an  active 
sympathy  with  cosmopolitan  aims,  displaying  on  the  theatre  of  politics  the 
virtues  which  impart  grace  and  dignity  to  private  character. 

But  the  pleasure  is  peculiar  in  remembering  your  early  and  generous 
friendship,  through  which  I am  now  permitted  to  hope  that  these  pages 
may  contribute,  albeit  in  a limited  way,  to  form  judicious  readers,  intel- 
ligent writers,  or  well-furnished  speakers;  minister  to  breadth  of  thought 
or  beneficence  of  feeling;  strengthen  faith  or  enkindle  hope;  deepen  or 
multiply  the  sense  of  truth,  beauty,  and  right,  whence  all  true  manliness 
is  fed. 


lish  of  Addison  and  Junius.  Classic  eloquence  adorned  the  Revolutionary 


Sincerely  yours, 


iii 


A.  H.  W. 


F.  L.  Stevens 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


Dedication iii 

Prologue ix 

List  of  Authorities xvii 


CHAPTER  I. 

Formative  Period  — The  People. 


Britain.  Primitive  Inhabitants.  Celtic  Invasion.  Roman  Conquest; 
its  Effects.  Anglo-Saxon  Conquest;  its  Effects.  Norman  Conquest; 
its  Effects.  Norman  Oppression.  Moulding  of  the  People  and 

Fusion  of  the  Races 1 

Celtic  Manners.  Druidism.  Roman  Refinements.  Celtic  Fancy.  Danish 

Customs.  Norman  Culture 18 

Anglo-Saxon  Civilization.  Social  Life.  Legislation  and  Knowledge. 


Traditions  and  Mythology.  Cosmogony.  Burial  Customs.  Val- 
halla. Theology.  Philosophy.  Savagery.  Code.  Home-Life. 
Fundamental  Instincts.  Results 21 


CHAPTER  II. 

Formative  Period — The  Language. 

Definition.  Origin.  Development.  Growth.  Diversities  of  Speech. 
Dialects.  Idioms.  Aryan  Mother-Tongue.  Elements  of  English. 
Original  Forms.  Transition.  Native  Features  of  the  Language. 
History  in  Word-Forms.  Superiority  of  Saxon  English.  Results.  39 

CHAPTER  III. 

Formative  Period — The  Literature. 

Politics.  Old  English  Jurisprudence.  Parliament.  Self-Government. 
Social  Life.  Town  Life.  Lawlessness.  Brutality.  Architecture. 

The  Jews  in  England.  Amusements.  Superstitions 60 


VI 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


Religion.  The  English  Church.  Roman  Encroachments.  Monasticism. 
Mendicant  Friars.  Vices  of  the  Clergy.  Disaffection  of  the  Laity. 
Redeeming  Excellences  of  the  System 73 

Learning;  its  Row  Condition.  Gradual  Revival.  Universities.  Primitive 
Oxford.  Language  ........ 82 

Poetry.  Saxon  Verse-Form.  Alliteration.  Rhyme.  The  Saxon  Ideal 
— Beowulf.  Tragic  Tones  of  Saxon  Poetry.  Sombre  Imagination 
of  the  North 89 

Romantic  Fiction.  Its  Origin.  Its  Themes.  Love  Courts.  Its  Form. 

Its  Poets.  Layamon.  Robert  of  Gloucester.  The  “Owl  and  the 
Nightingale” 102 

Rise  of  English  Prose.  History — Legendary  Stage.  Annalists.  The 
Saxon  Chronicle.  Theology.  Heresy.  Rationalism.  Ethics. 
Science.  Astrology.  Philosophy.  Scholasticism.  Realism.  Nom- 
inalism. Aquinas.  Scotus.  The  Syllogism.  Learned  Puerilities  . 117 

Representative  Authors: 

Caedmon 139 

Bede  .............  145 

Alfred 148 

Roger  Bacon 156 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Initiative  Period. 

Political  Forces.  Social  Life.  Chivalry.  Misery  of  the  Poor.  Revolt. 
Religion.  Exactions  of  Rome.  Dissensions  of  the  Clergy.  Disaf- 
fection of  the  People  164 

Learning.  Its  Decay.  Language.  The  King’s  English.  Its  Inter-  • 

mixtures 173 

Poetry.  Piers  Plowman.  Robert  Manning.  Gower.  “Confessio 
Amantis”  176 

Prose.  History.  Philosophy.  Science — Astrology.  Theology — Tran- 
substantiation.  Ethics  — Casuistry 187 

Representative  Authors: 

Mandeville 194 

Wycliffe 199 

Chaucer  204 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


yii 

CHAPTER  V. 

Retrogressive  Period. 

Political  Strife.  Social  State.  Industries.  Savagery.  Homes.  News. 

Sports 233 

Religion.  Debasement  of  the  Church.  Superstitions.  Excesses.  Oppres- 
sions   238 

Learning.  The  Press.  Language.  Emancipation  of  the  Tongue  . . 242 

Poetry.  Occleve.  Lydgate.  The  Ballad.  Robin  Hood 245 

Prose.  Paston  Letters.  Fortescue.  Malory.  History.  Fabyan. 
Theology — Decadence.  Ethics — Vacuity.  Science  — Empiricism. 

Philosophy — Dead  Sea  Fruit 252 

Representative  Author: 

Caxton 259 

CHAPTER  VI. 

First  Creative  Period. 

Political  Struggles.  Social  Condition.  Increase  of  Comfort  and  Luxury. 

Wretchedness  and  Disorder.  Brutal  Amusements 265 

The  Reformation.  Indulgences.  Dispensations.  Relies.  The  Scrip- 
tures. Book  of  Common  Prayer.  Latimer.  Ridley.  The  Church 

of  England.  Superstitions  of  the  People 272 

The  Renaissance;  its  Rise  and  Development.  Language.  Anomalies. 

Progress  in  Simplicity.  Organized  Completion 284 

Poetry.  Colin  Clout.  Skelton.  Surrey.  Continuity  of  Verse-Form. 
Rhetorical  and  Emotive.  Early  Drama.  The  Theatre.  Mysteries. 
Moralities.  Heywood.  Comedy;  Udall.  Tragedy;  Sackville.  Ex- 
ternals of  the  Stage.  Marlowe 297 

Prose.  Forces.  Style.  Euphuism.  History.  Raleigh.  Hollinshed. 
Theology.  The  Articles.  Rationalism  and  Dogma.  The  Bible. 
Ethics.  The  Dawn  in  Lord  Bacon’s  “Essays.”  Rise  of  Science. 
Copernicus.  Galileo.  Philosophy.  Emancipation  from  Scholas- 
ticism. Bruno 321 

Representative  Authors: 

More 334 

Sidney 341 

Hooker 347 

Raleigh 351 

Spenser 358 

Shakespeare  . . 373 


Vlll 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Philosophic  Period. 

Political  Parties.  Cavaliers.  Roundheads.  Amelioration  of  Social 

Life.  Relics  of  Barbarity 401 

Religion.  Puritan  Triumph.  Austerity.  Influence.  Witchcraft  . . 404 

Poetry.  Wither.  Carew.  Herrick.  Suckling.  Donne.  Herbert. 
Drummond.  Cowley.  Change  in  the  Drama.  Jonson.  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher.  Massinger.  Ford.  Webster.  Inequalities  of  the 

Drama.  Shirley.  Closing  of  the  Theatre 409 

Prose.  Burton.  Bishop  Hall.  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  Jeremy  Taylor. 
Ethics.  Secularization  of  Morals.  Science.  Astronomy.  Kepler. 
Newton.  Napier.  Harvey.  Rise  of  Modern  Philosophy.  Bacon. 

Descartes.  Browne 427 

Representative  Authors: 

Jonson . 444 

Lord  Bacon 456 

Milton 472 

Index 497 


PROLOGUE. 


A nation’s  literature  is  the  outcome  of  its  whole  life.  To 
consider  it  apart  from  the  antecedents  and  environments  which 
form  the  national  genius  were  to  misapprehend  its  nature  and 
its  bearing.  Its  growth  in  kind  and  degree  is  determined  by 
four  capital  agencies, — race,  or  hereditary  dispositions;  sur- 
roundings, or  physical  and  social  conditions;  epoch,  or  spirit 
of  the  age ; person,  or  reactionary  and  expressive  force.  His- 
torical phenomena  are  not  all  to  be  resolved,  as  with  Draper, 
into  physiological ; nor  all  to  be  explained,  as  with  Buckle,  by 
an  a priori  necessity ; nor  chiefly  to  be  referred,  as  with  Taine, 
to  the  sky,  the  weather,  and  the  nerves.  On  the  other  hand, 
they  are  as  far  removed  from  an  individual  spontaneity  as  from 
a depressing  fatalism.  Personal  genius  remakes  the  society 
which  evolves  it.  In  so  far  as  it  rises  above  the  table-land  of 
national  character,  it  not  only  expresses  but  intensifies  the 
national  type.  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  wrought  under  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  birth,  but  were  also,  by  their  own  supremacy, 
original  and  independent  sources  of  influence.  Yet  progress  is 
according  to  law.  In  the  midst  of  eternal  change  is  unity.  The 
relations  of  the  constants  and  the  variables  have  the  true  marks 
of  development.  On  a survey  of  the  whole,  human  wills,  how- 
ever free,  are  seen  to  conform,  under  a general  Providence,  to 
a definite  end. 

A history  of  English  Literature  requires,  therefore,  a descrip- 
tion of  English  soil  and  climate,  of  English  thought  and  English 
character,  as  they  exist  when  first  the  English  people  come  upon 
the  arena  of  history,  of  the  growth  of  that  character  and  that 


X 


PROLOGUE. 


thought,  as  they  are  colored  by  the  foreign  infusions  of  Celt, 
Roman,  Dane,  and  Norman,  or  impressed  and  fostered  by  the 
new  ideal  — Christianity.  Nor  can  any  man  understand  the 
American  mind  who  fails  to  appreciate  its  connection  with  Eng- 
lish history,  ancient  and  modern.  On  English  soil  were  first 
developed  what  he  most  values  in  his  ancestral  spirit  — the 
habits,  the  principles,  and  the  faith,  which  have  made  this 
country  to  be  what  it  is.  As  we  have  no  American  language 
which  is  not  a graft  on  the  English  stock,  though  there  be 
minor  points  of  difference, — so  we  have  no  American  literature 
which  does  not  flow  in  a common  stream  of  sentiment  from 
English  hearths  and  English  altars.  What  combinations  will 
hereafter  manifest  themselves  in  consequence  of  democratic  ten- 
dencies and  a gradual  amalgamation  with  all  the  other  nations 
of  Europe,  is  an  open  question;  but  the  distinctive  features 
which  have  displayed  themselves  within  the  present  century 
can  hardly  be  deemed  of  sufficient  strength  to  color  or  disturb 
the  primitive  current. 

So  far  as  a historical  work  may  be  intended  to  be  an  educa- 
tional appliance,  it  obviously  should  be  neither  a presentation  of 
chronological  details  nor  a mere  discussion  of  causes.  The  high 
and  natural  destination  of  the  soul  is  the  full  development  of  its 
moral  and  intellectual  faculties.  Hence  knowledge  is  chiefly 
valuable  as  a means  of  mental  activity.  And  since  the  desire  of 
unity,  and  the  necessity  of  referring  effects  to  their  causes,  are 
the  mainspring  of  energy,  the  knowledge  that  a thing  is, — that 
a certain  author  wrote  certain  books,  that  a certain  book  con- 
tains a certain  passage,  that  a certain  passage  contains  a certain 
opinion, — is  far  less  important  than  the  knowledge  how  or  why 
it  is, — how  the  author,  the  book,  the  opinion  are  related,  as 
consequent  and  antecedent,  to  some  dominant  idea  or  moral 
state;  how  this  idea  or  state  is  shaped  by  natural  bent  and 
constraining  force;  how,  from  this  primitive  bent  and  moulding 


PROLOGUE. 


XI 


force,  we  may  see  in  advance,  and  half  predict  the  character  of 
human  events  and  productions;  how  beneath  literary  remains  we 
can  unearth  the  beatings  of  living  hearts  centuries  ago,  as  the 
lifeless  wreck  of  a shell  is  a clue  to  the  entire  and  living 
existence.  The  one  is  a knowledge  of  objects  as  isolated;  the 
other,  of  objects  as  connected.  The  first  gives  facts;  the  second 
gives  power.  An  individual  may  possess  an  ample  magazine  of 
the  former,  and  still  be  little  better  than  a barbarian.  Accord- 
ingly 1 have  aimed  at  the  golden  mean, — a judicious  union  of 
facts  and  philosophy,  of  narrative  and  reflection,  of  objective 
description  and  subjective  meditation.  Color  and  form  may  be 
desirable  to  attract  the  eye,  but  the  interlacing,  spiritual  force, 
that  blends  them  into  harmony  and  coherence,  is  required  to 
make  their  lesson  disciplinary,  available,  and  enduring. 

Again,  it  is  a law  of  intelligence  that  the  greater  the  number 
of  objects  to  which  our  consciousness  is  simultaneously  extended, 
the  smaller  is  the  intensity  with  which  it  is  able  to  consider  each, 
and  therefore  the  less  vivid  and  distinct  will  be  the  information 
obtained.  If  the  points  considered  are  intermingled,  the  rays 
are  not  brought  to  a focus,  and  the  mental  eye, — following  the 
lines,  but  nowhere  abiding, — instead  of  a clear  and  well-defined 
image,  perceives  only  a shadowy  and  confused  outline.  Now,  to 
the  ordinary  student,  it  is  believed  that  the  treatment  of  authors 
in  our  current  text-books  presents  the  fantastic  groupings  of  the 
kaleidoscope, — a bewildering  show.  In  the  whirl  and  entangle- 
ment of  topics,  he  sees  nothing  in  an  undivided  light,  and 
receives  no  lasting  and  organic  impressions.  He  reads  passively, 
conceives  feebly,  and  forgets  speedily.  Therefore  each  leading 
author  is  here  discussed  under  the  classified  heads  of  Biogra- 
phy, Writings,  Style,  Rank,  Character,  and  Influence. 
Others  are  added  when  rising  into  special  interest  and  signifi- 
cance. One  thing  at  a time  is  the  accepted  condition  for  all 
efficient  activity.  While  the  topics  are  logically  related  as  the 


PROLOGUE. 


xii 

more  or  less  interdependent  parts  of  a whole,  each  receives  the 
amplest  justice  by  being  made  in  its  turn  the  central  subject  of 
thought.  The  mind  in  its  work  thus  becomes  more  animated 
and  energetic,  because  its  ideas  are  kindred,  all  converging  to  a 
definite  because  to  a single  impression.  By  such  an  arrange- 
ment, moreover,  the  logical  powers  are  trained,  and  the  student 
unconsciously  acquires  a habit  of  bringing,  in  writing  or  speak- 
ing, his  thoughts  out  of  chaos  into  order. 

Further,  a great  man,  his  career,  his  example,  his  ideas,  can 
take  no  strong  and  permanent  hold  of  the  heart  and  mind,  until 
these  have  become  an  integral  part  of  our  established  associa- 
tions of  thoughts,  feelings,  and  desires.  But  this  can  only  be 
accomplished  by  time.  The  attention  must  be  detained  till  the 
subject  becomes  real,  as  the  face  of  a friend;  fixed,  as  the  sun 
and  stars:  then  the  energies  of  apprehension,  of  judgment,  of 
sympathy,  are  aroused;  and  images,  principles,  truths,  senti- 
ments, though  the  words  be  forgotten,  become  fadeless  acquisi- 
tions, assimilated  into  the  very  substance  of  the  student’s  living 
self.  Hence,  as  the  end  of  liberal  education  is  the  cultivation  of 
the  student  through  the  awakened  exercise  of  his  faculties,  the 
authors  studied  should  be  relatively  few  and  representative. 
Time  is  wasted  and  the  powers  are  dissipated  by  attempting  too 
much.  Preeminent  authors  are  creative  and  pictorial,  reflecting, 
with  singular  fidelity,  the  peculiarities  of  their  age;  and  by 
limiting  the  discussion  to  such,  the  student  acquires  the  most  in 
learning  the  least. 

Regarding  language  as  an  apparatus  for  the  conveyance  of 
thought,  and  mindful  that  whatever  force  is  absorbed  by  the 
machine  is  deducted  from  the  result,  I have  carefully  excluded 
polemical  and  conjectural  matter  from  the  body  of  the  work, 
have  seldom  diverted  attention  by  introduction  of  foot-notes, 
and  have  employed  dates  but  sparingly.  ‘ Biography,’  says 
Lowell,  ‘ from  day  to  day  holds  dates  cheaper  and  facts  dearer,’ 


PROLOGUE. 


X11L 


— not  all  facts,  indeed,  but  the  essential  ones,  those  of  psycho- 
logical purport,  which  underlie  the  life  and  make  the  individual 
man.  To  the  same  end  — economy  of  mental  energy  — the  early 
poets,  including  Chaucer,  are  presented  in  a more  or  less  mod- 
ernized form,  with  an  occasional  retention  of  the  antique  dialect 
for  its  illustrative  uses. 

Neither  the  artist  nor  his  art,  as  before  stated,  can  be  under- 
stood and  estimated  independently  of  his  times.  No  enlarged 
or  profound  conception  of  intellectual  culture  is  possible  with- 
out completeness  of  view, — without  a well-defined  notion  of  the 
other  elements  of  society,  and  of  those  products  designed  to 
convince  of  truth  or  to  arouse  to  action,  as  well  as  of  those 
whose  prime  object  is  to  address  the  imagination  or  to  please 
the  taste.  Consequently,  each  of  the  periods,  into  which  the 
work  is  divided  according  to  what  seemed  their  predominant 
characteristics,  is  introduced  by  a sketch  of  the  features  which 
distinguish  it,  and  of  the  forces  which  go  to  shape  it,  including 
Politics,  the  state  of  Society,  Religion,  Poetry,  the  Drama, 
the  Novel,  the  Periodical,  History,  Theology,  Ethics,  Sci- 
ence, Philosophy.  No  one  who  aspires  now  to  literary  power 
can  afford  to  be  ignorant  of  the  scientific  ph&se  of  modern 
thought.  The  educational  value  of  philosophy  is  peculiarly 
apparent  in  its  effects  on  the  culture  and  discipline  of  the 
mind, — to  quicken  it,  to  teach  it  precision,  to  lead  it  to  inquire 
into  the  causes  and  relations  of  things,  to  awaken  it  to  a vigor- 
ous and  varied  exertion.  Not  less  salutary  in  this  point  of  view, 
and  far  more  so  in  another,  are  theology  and  ethics.  Moral  cul- 
ture and  religious  growth  cannot  be  excluded  from  any  just 
conception  of  education.  Broadly  stated,  it  is  of  vast  moment 
to  the  student  to  reflect  upon  the  motives  and  springs  of 
human  action,  to  face  the  unexplained  mystery  of  thought,  to 
ask  himself,  What  is  right,  and  what  wrong  ; what  am  I,  and 
whither  going;  what  my  history,  and  my  destiny? 


XIV 


PROLOGUE. 


According  to  an  enlightened  science  of  education,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  see  the  utility  of  a text-book,  though  critical,  that  is 
wholly  abstracted  from  the  literature  itself.  Its  criticisms,  its 
general  observations,  are  meaningless  and  powerless  without 
illustrative  specimens  to  verify  them.  They  produce  no  answer- 
ing thoughts,  no  questioning,  and  thus  no  valuable  activity. 
The  student  is  expected  blindly  to  yield  himself  to  the  direc- 
tion of  another.  He  forms  no  independent  judgment,  is  excited 
to  no  disputation,  is  stimulated  to  no  profitable  or  pleasurable 
exercise.  But  instruction  is  only  instruction  as  it  enables  us 
to  teach  ourselves,  and  leaves  on  the  mind  serviceable  images 
and  contemplations.  If  truth  is  not  expansive,  if  it  is  not 
recast  and  used  to  interpret  nature  and  guide  the  life,  wherein 
is  its  value?  The  materials  of  discipline  and  culture  are  fur- 
nished, not  by  statements  about  literature,  but  by  the  litera- 
ture itself.  To  refine  the  taste,  to  sharpen  thought,  to  inspire 
feeling,  the  student  must  be  brought  closely  and  consciously 
into  contact  with  personality, — that  is,  with  the  writer’s  pro- 
ductions. Not  only  are  extracts  to  be  presented,  but  when 
practicable  and  expedient,  entire  artistic  products.  These  are 
to  be  interpreted ; and  in  them,  as  in  a mirror,  the  student 
should  be  taught  to  recognize  the  genius  that  constructed  them, 
— his  style,  his  character,  the  manners,  opinions,  and  civilization 
of  the  period. 

Particular  care  has  been  taken  to  insure  an  interest  in  the 
personal  life  of  an  author;  for  all  the  rules  that  have  ever  been 
prescribed  for  controlling  the  attention  find  their  principal  value 
in  this, — that  they  induce  or  require  an  interest  in  the  subject- 
matter.  Hence  the  value  of  reported  sayings,  private  journals, 
correspondence,  striking  events,  gossipy  incidents, — the  scenery 
and  personages  that  belong  to  the  period,  and  which  have  the 
effect  to  charm  the  mind  into  a sympathetic  attitude  toward 
the  author’s  work.  ‘ As  the  enveloping  English  ivy  lends  a 


PROLOGUE. 


XV 


living  charm  and  attractiveness  to  many  a ruined  castle  and 
abbey,  which  would  prove  uninviting  to  the  tourist  standing 
in  its  naked  deformity,  so  a reasonable  amplitude  of  treatment 
often  throws  a wonderful  fascination  over  old  names  and  dates, 
otherwise  uninteresting.’ 

It  would  seem  obvious  that  a history  of  English  Literature 
should  note  in  a catholic  and  liberal  spirit  the  practical  lessons 
suggested  by  its  theme.  If  it  warms  not  the  feelings  into 
noble  earnestness,  elevates  not  the  mind’s  ideals,  nor  supplies 
healthful  truths  by  which  to  live  and  to  die,  it  is  lamentably 
defective;  and  the  fault  is  not  in  the  subject,  but  in  the  histo- 
rian. When  Dr.  Arnold  was  planning  his  history,  he  said: 
“ My  highest  ambition  ...  is  to  make  my  history  the  very 
reverse  of  Gibbon  in  this  respect,  that  whereas  the  whole  spirit 
of  his  work,  from  its  low  morality,  is  hostile  to  religion  without 
speaking  directly  against  it,  so  my  greatest  desire  would  be,  in 
my  history,  by  its  high  morals  and  its  general  tone,  to  be  of 
use  to  the  cause,  without  actually  bringing  it  fonvard .’  With- 
out twisting  a story  into  a sermon,  I have  humbly  endeavored 
to  present  it  as  the  artist  describes  nature, — with  a light  falling 
upon  it  from  the  region  of  the  highest  and  truest.  As  to  the 
benefits  of  this  study  per  se,  they  cannot  be  overestimated.  He 
can  hardly  hope  for  eminence  as  a writer,  who  has  not  enriched 
his  mind  and  perfected  his  style  by  familiarity  with  the  literary 
masters  and  masterpieces;  while  to  have  fed  on  high  thoughts 
and  to  have  companioned  with  those  — 

‘ Whose  soul  the  holy  forms 
Of  young  imagination  hath  kept  pure,’ 

are,  beyond  all  teaching,  the  virtue-making  powers. 

Every  thinker,  the  most  original,  owes  his  originality  to  the 
originality  of  all.  ‘Very  little  of  me,’  said  Goethe,  ‘would  be 
left,  if  I could  but  say  what  I owe  to  my  predecessors  and 
contemporaries.’  Omnipotence  creates,  man  combines.  He  can 
be  originative,  strictly,  only  in  development,  in  the  form  of  his 


XVI 


PROLOGUE. 


funded  thought,  in  the  fusion  of  his  collected  materials,  as  the 
sculptor  in  the  conception  of  his  statue,  or  the  architect  in  the 
design  of  his  edifice.  My  scope  and  purposes  being  such  as 
indicated,  I have  drawn  freely  from  all  the  fountains  arOund 
me, — have  wished  to  absorb  all  the  light  anywhere  radiating. 
To  the  many  who  have  helped  me,  it  is  a pleasure  to  record  my 
obligations  in  the  manner  which  seems  most  accordant  with  the 
objects  and  uses  to  be  subserved, — either  explicitly  in  the  text, 
or  collectively  in  the  List  of  Authorities.  To  some  sources,  how- 
ever, I am  preeminently  indebted, — to  the  literary  histories  of 
Anderson,  Bascom,  and  Taine;  to  the  critical  essays  of  Macaulay, 
Hazlitt,  and  Whipple;  to  the  philosophical  treatises  of  Lecky, 
Buckle,  Lewes,  and  Uberweg.  I wish,  also,  to  render  acknowl- 
edgments to  personal  friends, — to  Rev.  J.  L.  Grover  for  free 
access  to  the  Columbus  Library;  to  General  Joseph  Geiger,  and 
his  accomplished  assistant,  Miss  Mary  Harbaugh,  for  the  liberal 
privileges  of  the  Ohio  State  Library;  to  Professor  Alston  Ellis, 
Ph.D.,  for  valuable  suggestions;  to  Rev.  Daniel  F.  Smith,  and 
Mr.  James  Bishop  Bell,  of  Chicago,  the  scholarly  readers,  for 
their  critical  and  unstinted  revision  of  the  proof-sheets;  to  Rev. 
F.  W.  Gunsaulus,  and  A.  E.  Clevenger,  A.M.,  for  large  and 
important  aid  in  the  preparation  of  a copious  index. 

In  conclusion,  my  supreme  anxiety  has  been  to  produce  not 
a brilliant  but  a useful  book,  and  the  results  are  therefore  hope- 
fully commended  to  a conscientious  and  catholic  criticism,  a 
criticism  that  shall  take  high  ground, — that  shall  aim  to  pro- 
mote the  common  weal, — that  shall  not  look  through  a micro- 
scope when  it  should  look  through  a telescope, — that  shall 
illuminate  excellences  as  well  as  indicate  errors, — that  shall 
contemplate  the  whole  before  it  adjudicates  on  the  parts, — 
that  shall  be  perceptive,  sympathetic,  and  suggestive. 

The  Author. 

Columbus , Ohio , July  J,  1882. 


LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES. 


Adams,  J.  Q 

Alford,  H 

Alger,  W.  R 

Anderson,  R.  B. . 
Azarins,  Brother. 

Angus,  J 

Bagehot,  W 

Baring-Gould,  S. 

Bascom,  J 

Bayne,  P 

Bayne,  P 

Browne,  M 

Buckle,  H.  T 

Burnet,  G 

Cairns,  J 

Carlyle,  T 

Carlyle,  T 

Carpenter,  S.  H. . 

Chambers,  R 

Channing,  W.  E. . 

Cocker,  B.  F 

Clarke,  C.  C 

Collet,  S 

Collier,  J.  P 

Cook,  Joseph 

Cooke,  G.  W 

Cox,  G.  W 

C’raik,  G.  L 

De  Mille,  J 

DTsraeli,  I 

D'lsraeli,  I 

Dorner,  J.  A 

Drake,  N 

Draper,  J.  W 

Eccleston,  J 

Ellis,  G 

Emerson,  R.  W.  . 
Emerson,  R.  W.  . 
Farrar,  F.  W.  . . . 

Farrar,  F.  W 

Farrar,  F.  W 

Fa  uriel,  C.  C. 

Fields,  J.  T 

Fiske,  J 

Fowler,  W.  E 

Freeman,  E.  A. . . 
Freeman,  E.  A.  . 
Fronde,  J.  A 


.Lectures  on  Oratory  and  Rhetoric. 
Queen’s  English. 

.Poetry  of  the  East. 

.Norse  Mythology. 

.Old  English  Period. 

. Hand-Book  of  English  Literature. 
.English  Constitution. 

.Myths  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
.Philosophy  of  English  Literature. 
.Essays  in  Biography  and  Criticism. 
.Lessons  from  My  Masters. 
.Chaucer’s  England. 

.History  of  Civilization  in  England. 
.History  of  his  own  Time. 

Unbelief  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
.Heroes  and  Hero-Worship. 

.Oliver  Cromwell. 

.English  of  the  Fourteenth  Century. 
.Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature. 
.Complete  Works. 

.Christianity  and  Greek  Philosophy. 
.Riches  of  Chaucer. 

Relics  of  Literature. 

.History  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry. 
.Conscience. 

.Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

.Mythology  of  the  Aryan  Nations. 
.History  of  English  Literature. 
.Elements  of  Rhetoric. 

.Amenities  of  Literature. 

.Curiosities  of  Literature. 

.History  of  Protestant  Theology. 
.Shakespeare  and  His  Times. 
.Intellectual  Development  of  Europe. 
English  Antiquities. 

.Early  English  Metrical  Romances. 
.English  Traits. 

.Representative  Men. 

.Chapters  on  Language. 

.Language  and  Languages. 

.Witness  of  History  to  Christ. 

History  of  Prove^al  Poetry. 
.Yesterdays  with  Authors. 

.Myths  and  Myth-makers. 

Grammar  of  the  English  Language. 
History  of  Norman  Conquest. 

.Old  English  History. 

.History  of  England, 
xvii 


XV111 


LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES. 


Fronde,  J.  A.  ... 

Geike,  C 

Giles,  J.  A 

Gilfillan,  G 

Gilliland,  T. 
Gladstone,  W.  E. 
Gladstone,  W.  E. 

Godwin,  P 

Goodman,  W.  . . . 

Gould,  E.  S 

Green,  J.  R 

Guizot,  F.  P.  G 

Guizot,  F.  P.  G 

Hamilton,  Sir  W.  . . . 

Hallam,  H 

Hallam,  H 

Hallam,  H 

Haven,  J 

Hazlitt,  W 

Hazlitt,  W.  C 

Hudson,  F.  

Hume,  D. 

Hunt,  L 

Hurst,  J.  F 

Hutton,  R.  H 

Irvrng,  W 

Jameson,  A 

Johnson,  S 

Jouffroy.  T.  S 

King,  T.  S 

Knight,  C 

Labarte,  J 

Lange,  F A 

Lanier,  S 

Latham,  R.  G 

Lecky,  W.  E.  H.  ... 
Lecky,  W.  E.  H.  . . . 

Lecky,  W.  E.  H 

Leland,  J 

Lewes,  G.  II 

Lewis,  J 

Lodge,  E 

Longfellow,  H.  W.  . . 

Lowell,  J.  R 

Lowell,  J.  R 

Lubbock,  Sir  J 

Lytton,  Lord 

Macaulay,  T.  B 

Macaulay,  T.  B 

Mackintosh,  Sir  J.  . . 

Marsh,  G.  P 

Martineau,  H 

Martineau,  J 

Mathews,  W 

M'Cosh,  J 

M’Cosh,  J 

Mill,  J.  S 

Mills,  C 


..Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects. 

.The  English  Reformation. 

. Ancient  Britons. 

.Modern  Literature  and  Literary  Men. 

, .Dramatic  Mirror. 

.Gleanings  of  Past  Years. 

, . Juventus  Mundi. 

. . Out  of  the  Past. 

. Social  History  of  Great  Britain. 

. .Good  English. 

. A Short  History  of  the  English  People. 
..History  of  Civilization  in  Europe. 

. .History  of  the  English  Revolution. 
.Discussions  on  Philosophy  and  Literature. 
.Constitutional  History  of  England. 

. Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages. 

Literature  of  Europe. 

.History  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Philosophy. 
.Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth. 
.Early  Literature  of  Great  Britain. 

.History  of  Journalism  in  the  United  States. 
.History  of  England. 

. Selections  from  English  Poets. 

History  of  Rationalism. 

.Essays,  Theological  and  Literary. 

.Oliver  Goldsmith. 

..Legends  of  the  Monastic  Orders. 

Lives  of  Eminent  English  Poets. 
.Introduction  to  Ethics. 

.Christianity  and  Humanity. 

Popular  History  of  England. 

. Arts  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  Renaissance. 
History  of  Materialism. 

.Science  of  English  Verse. 

.English  Language. 

.England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

.History  of  European  Morals. 

.Rationalism  in  Europe. 

.View  of  Deistical  Writers. 

Biographical  History  of  Philosophy. 

.History  of  English  Translations  of  the  Bible. 
.Illustrations  of  British  History. 

. Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe. 

.Among  My  Books. 

.My  Study  "Windows. 

.Origin  of  Civilization. 

Last  of  the  Barons. 

Essays. 

History  of  England. 

.Progress  of  Ethical  Philosophy. 

.Origin  and  History  of  the  English  Language 
.History  of  England. 

.Essays,  Philosophical  and  Theological. 
.Literary  Style. 

Christianity  and  Positivism. 

.Intuitions  of  the  Mind. 

System  of  Logic. 

.History  of  Chivalry. 


LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES.  xix 

Morell,  J.  D Speculative  Philosophy  of  Europe. 

Morley,  H First  Sketch  of  English  Literature. 

Morris,  G.  S British  Thought  and  Thinkers. 

Mosheim,  J.  L Ecclesiastical  History. 

Muller,  F.  M Chips  from  a German  Workshop. 

Muller,  F.  M Science  of  Language. 

Neal,  D History  of  the  Puritans. 

Neele,  II Lectures  on  English  Poetry. 

Niebuhr,  B.  G History  of  Rome. 

Oliphant,  T.  L.  K Old  and  Middle  English. 

Palgrave,  Sir  F History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 

Palgrave,  Sir  F Rise  of  the  English  Commonwealth. 

Parker,  T Complete  Works. 

Percy,  T Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry. 

Phelps,  Austin Men  and  Books. 

Philp,  R.  K Progress  in  Great  Britain. 

Porter,  N Books  and  Reading. 

Porter,  N The  Human  Intellect. 

Prescott,  W.  II Biographical  and  Critical  Miscellanies. 

Ranke,  L History  of  the  Popes. 

Reed,  II Lectures  on  English  History. 

Reed,  H Lectures  on  English  Literature. 

Ruskin,  J Modern  Painters. 

Russell.  A.  P Library  Notes. 

Scliaff,  P History  of  the  Christian  Church. 

Schuyler,  A Outlines  of  Logic. 

Shairp,  J.  C Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature. 

Shairp,  J.  C Aspects  of  Poetry. 

Sismondi.  J.  C.  L.  S.  de Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe. 

Shepherd,  Henry  E History  of  the  English  Language. 

Smollet,  T History  of  England. 

Spencer,  II Illustrations  of  Universal  Progress. 

Stael,  Madame  de Influence  of  Literature. 

Stanhope,  P.  H Reign  of  Queen  Anne. 

Stedman,  E.  C Victorian  Poets. 

Stephen,  L English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Stubbs,  W Constitutional  History  of  England. 

Symonds,  J.  A Sketches  and  Studies  in  Southern  Europe. 

Symonds,  J.  A The  Renaissance  in  Italy. 

Taine,  H.  A Notes  on  England. 

Taine,  II.  A History  of  English  Literature. 

Thoms,  W.  «J Prose  Romances. 

Thomson,  E Educational  Essays. 

Thorpe,  B Northern  Mythology. 

Tocqueville,  A.  de Democracy  in  America. 

Tookc,  J.  H Diversions  of  Purley. 

Trench,  R.  C English,  Past  and  Present. 

Trench,  R.  C On  the  Study  of  Words. 

Turner,  S History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 

Turner,  T.  H Domestic  Architecture  in  England. 

Tylor,  E.  B Primitive  Culture. 

Uberweg,  F History  of  Philosophy. 

Vaughan,  R Revolutions  in  English  History. 

Ward,  T.  H English  Poets. 

Warton,  T History  of  English  Poetry. 

Whewell,  W History  of  the  Inductive  Sciences. 

Whewell,  W Philosophy  of  the  Inductive  Sciences. 


XX  LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES. 

Whewell,  W Elements  of  Morality. 

Whipple,  E.  P Character  and  Characteristic  Men. 

Whipple,  E.  P Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth. 

White,  J History  of  England. 

Whitney,  W.  D...  . Language  and  the  Study  of  Language. 

Whitney,  W.  D Life  and  Growth  of  Language. 

Wright,  T England  in  the  Middle  Ages. 


DEVELOPMENT 

OP 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE  AND  LANGUAGE. 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FORMING  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

The  harvest  gathered  in  the  fields  of  the  Past  is  to  be  brought  home  for  the  use  of  the 
Present.— Dr.  Arnold. 

History  does  not  stand  outside  of  nature,  but  in  her  very  heart,  so  that  the  historian  only 
grasps  a people’s  character  with  true  precision  when  he  keeps  in  full  view  its  geographical 
position,  and  the  influences  which  its  surroundings  have  wrought  upon  it. — Ritter. 

Geographical. — We  see,  by  reference  to  the  map,  that  Eng- 
land— the  land  from  which  our  language  and  many  of  our  insti- 
tutions are  derived  — is  the  largest  of  three  countries  comprising 
the  island  of  Great  Britain. 1 The  remaining  two  are  W ales  and 
Scotland.  These  three,  with  Ireland,  constitute  the  United  King- 
dom/ and  this,  with  its  foreign  possessions,  the  British  Empire. 

England,  consisting  chiefly  of  low  plains  and  gentle  hills, 
■occupies  the  central  and  southern  portion  of  the  island;  and 
Wales,  mountainous  and  marshy,  the  western.  Scotland  is  the 
northern  division,  storm-beaten  by  a hostile  ocean;  mountainous 
and  sterile  in  the  north,  but  abounding  in  fertile  plains  in  the 
south. 

Britain  is  separated  from  France  by  the  English  Channel,  from 
Ireland  by  the  Irish  Sea,  and  from  Germany  by  the  North  Sea, 
notorious  for  its  wrecks. 

1 Great  Britain,  because  there  is  another  land  also  called  Britain,— the  northwestern 
corner  of  Gaul ; but  this  last  is  now  commonly  called  Brittany.  The  two  names,  however, 
are  really  the  same,  and  both  are  called  in  Latin  Britannia. 


2 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


Its  entire  extent  is  about  ninety  thousand  square  miles,  or 
nearly  twice  the  area  of  the  State  of  New  York. 

It  is  divided  into  counties,  or  shires , of  which  England  has 
forty,  W ales  twelve,  Scotland  thirty-three. 

Its  climate  is  moist  with  the  vapors  that  rise  foreVer  from  the 
great  sea-girdle,  and  its  sky  sombre  with  the  clouds  that  are  fed 
by  ceaseless  exhalations, — conditions  which,  however  conducive 
to  splendor  of  verdure,  are  less  nurturing  to  refined  and  nimble 
thought  than  to  sluggish  and  melancholy  temperament;  for  man, 
forced  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstances,  contracts  habits 
and  aptitudes  corresponding  to  them. 

No  European  country  should  have  a deeper  interest  for  Eng- 
lish or  American  readers;  none  is  so  rich  in  learning  and  science, 
in  wise  men  and  useful  arts;  but  nothing  in  its  early  existence 
indicated  the  greatness  it  was  destined  to  attain.  We  are  to  think 
of  it  in  those  dim  old  days  as,  intellectually  and  physically,  an 
island  in  a northern  sea  — the  joyless  abode  of  rain  and  surge, 
forest  and  bog,  wild  beast  and  sinewy  savage,  which,  as  it  strug- 
gled from  chaos  into  order,  from  morning  into  prime,  should 
become  the  residence  of  civilized  energy  and  Christian  sentiment, 
of  smiling  love  and  sweet  poetic  dreams. 

Britons. — When  we  learn  that  the  same  grammatical  princi- 
ples, the  same  laws  of  structure,  dominate  throughout  the  lan- 
guages of  Europe,  and  that,  even  when  their  apparent  differences 
are  most  obvious,  it  may  yet  be  proved  that  there  is  a complete 
identity  in  their  main  roots,  there  can  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  that 
they  were  once  identical,  and  that  the  many  peoples  who  use  them, 
once,  long  before  the  beginning  of  recorded  annals,  dwelt  together 
in  the  same  pastoral  tents.  Somewhere  in  the  quadrilateral  which 
extends  from  the  Indus  to  the  Euphrates,  and  from  the  Oxus  to 
the  Persian  Gulf,  amid  scenery  ‘ grandiose  yet  severe,’  lived  this 
mother-race,  unknown  even  to  tradition,  but  revealed  by  linguistic 
science, — parent  'of  the  speculative  subtlety  of  Germany,  of  the 
imperial  energy  of  England,  of  the  vivid  intelligence  of  F ranee,  of 
the  glory  that  was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.  Its 
most  ancient  name  with  which  we  are  acquainted  is  Aryas , derived 
from  the  root  ar,  to  plough,  and  which  therefore  implies  originally 
an  agricultural  as  distinguished  from  a rude  and  nomadic  people. 
Just  when  it  began  to  wander  away  from  its  cradle-land  is  un- 


PRIMITIVE  BRITONS. 


known;  but  gradually,  perhaps  by  the  natural  growth  of  popula- 
tion, perhaps  by  the  restless  spirit  of  enterprise,  the  old  home  was 
abandoned;  and  it  often  happened  that  a wandering  band  parted 
asunder  into  two  or  more  others  in  the  course  of  its  wanderinsrs,. 
who  forgot,  as  they  separated,  the  rock  whence  they  were  hewn 
and  the  hole  of  the  pit  whence  they  were  digged.  In  most  cases 
they  entered  upon  territory  already  inhabited  by  other  races,  but 
these  were  commonly  either  destroyed  or  driven  from  the  select 
parts  into  out-of-the-way  corners. 

First  of  all,  in  quest  of  new  fortunes,  came  the  Celts , pressing 
their  way  into  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  Gaul  (now  France),  and 
thence  into  Britain.  The  area  over  which  Celtic  names  are  found 
diffused  shows  the  original  extent  of  their  dominion.  These  pre- 
English  Celts,  ever  waning  and  dying,  survive  chiefly  in  the  mod- 
ern Highlanders,  Irish1  and  Welsh.2  Their  history,  as  Britons, 
finds  its  earliest  solid  footing  in  the  narrative  of  a Roman  soldier. 
Early  historians,  indeed,  who  could  look  into  the  far  and  shadowy 
past  with  an  unquestioning  confidence,  marshalled  kings  and 
dynasties  in  complete  chronology  and  exact  succession.  They 
made  British  antiquity  run  parallel  with  ‘ old  hushed  Egypt,’  with 
the  prophets  and  judges  of  Israel.  We  are  gravely  told  of  one 
British  king  who  flourished  in  the  time  of  Saul,  of  another  who 
was  contemporary  with  Solomon;  that  King  Lear  had  grown  old 
in  government  when  Romulus  and  Remus  were  suckled;  that  the 
Britons  were  sprung  from  Trojan  ancestry,  and  took  their  name 
from  Brutus,  who,  an  exile  and  troubled  wanderer,  was  directed 
by  the  oracle  of  Diana  to  come  to  Albion,3 — 

‘ That  pale,  that  white-faced  shore, 

Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean’s  roaring  tides.’ 

Standing  before  the  altar  of  the  goddess,  with  vessel  of  wine 
and  blood  of  white  hart,  he  had  repeated  nine  times, — 

‘ Goddess  of  woods,  tremendous  in  the  chase 
To  mountain  boars,  and  all  the  savage  race! 

Wide  o’er  the  ethereal  walks  extends  thy  sway. 

And  o’er  the  infernal  mansions  void  of  day! 

Look  upon  us  on  earth!  unfold  our  fate, 

And  say  what  region  is  our  destined  seat! 

Where  shall  we  next  thy  lasting  temples  raise? 

And  choirs  of  angels  celebrate  thy  praise?’ 

1 Meaning  ‘Men  of  the  West.’  2 Meaning  ‘ Strangers.’ 

3 The  island,  not  yet  Britain,  was  ruled  over  by  Albion,  a giant,  and  son  of  Neptune, 

who  gave  it  his  name.  Presuming,  says  one  account,  to  oppose  the  progress  of  Hercules  in 
his  western  march,  he  was  slain. 


4 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


In  deep  sleep,  in  vision  of  the  night,  he  was  answered, — 

* Brutus ! there  lies  beyond  the  Gallic  bounds 
An  Island  which  the  western  sea  surrounds. 

By  giants  once  possessed ; now  few  remain 
To  bar  thy  entrance,  or  obstruct  thy  reign. 

To  reach  that  happy  shore  thy  sails  employ ; 

There  fate  decrees  to  raise  a second  Troy, 

And  found  an  empire  in  thy  royal  line, 

Which  time  shall  ne’er  destroy,  nor  bounds  confine.’ 

We  call  these  stories  legendary;  once  — as  late  as  the  seven- 
teenth century  — they  were  accredited  history.  Certainly,  the 
faith  which  received  them  as  such  seems  to  us  better  than  the 
vicious  scepticism  which  would  beggar  us  of  the  accumulated 
inheritance  of  ages  by  destroying  belief  in  the  evidence.  They 
may,  and  doubtless  do,  contain  germs  of  truth  — left  on  the 
shifting  sands  as  wave  after  wave  of  forgotten  generations  broke 
on  the  shores  of  eternity.  Many  a mighty  empire,  it  is  true, 
has  faded  forever  out  of  the  memory  of  man;  but  much  that 
was  once  thought  irretrievably  lost  has  been  reclaimed;  and, 
hereafter,  historical  science  may  bring  to  light  from  the  dark 
oblivion  of  these  pre-historic  Britons  more  than  is  now  dreamed 
of  in  our  philosophy. 

Fables  of  a line  of  kings  before  the  Romans,  have  left  one 
legend  that  has  become  to  all  a wondrous  reality  — the  story  of 
King  Lear,  transmuted  by  the  alchemy  of  genius  into  perhaps 
the  most  impressive  and  awful  tragedy  in  the  range  of  dramatic 
literature. 

Roman  Conquest. — Meanwhile,  our  first  authentic  informa- 
tion in  regard  to  them  is  given  by  Julius  Cmsar,  who,  fifty-five 
years  before  Christ,  led  his  brass-mailed  legions  into  Britain  from 
Gaul.  If  the  attack  was  fierce,  the  resistance  was  heroic,  and 
marks  the  rising  pulse  in  that  flood 

‘ Of  British  freedom  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world’s  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 
t Hath  flowed.’ 

While  the  Roman  standard-bearer  leaped  into  the  waves,  and 
bade  his  hesitating  comrades  follow,  the  Britons  dashed  into  the 
surf  to  strike  the  invader  before  his  foot  polluted  their  soil. 
The  invasion  added  nothing  to  the  Roman  power  or  pride.  At 
the  end  of  his  campaigns,  Caesar  had  viewed  the  island  rather 
than  possessed  it;  and  when  he  gave  thanks  at  Rome  to  the 


ROMAN  INVADERS. 


0 


gods,  it  may  be  questioned  whether  it  was  for  a conquest  or  an 
escape. 

Under  his  successors,  however,  about  the  year  85,  when  the 
Republic  had  become  the  Empire,  the  central  and  southern  por- 
tion of  the  country  became  a Roman  province,  and  was  subject 
to  Roman  rule  nearly  four  hundred  years. 

Slow,  feeble  and  imperfect  victory,  as  in  the  evening  of  a 
well-fought  day,  when  the  veteran’s  arm  is  less  strong  and  his 
passions  less  violent. 

Effects. — During  this  time  much  was  done  to  improve  the 
condition  of  the  natives.  The  Roman  coins,  laws,  language,  were 
introduced.  Governed  with  justice,  they  became  less  estranged. 
Schools  were  established.  The  conquered  were  grouped  to- 
gether in  cities  guarded  by  massive  walls,  and  linked  together 
by  a net-work  of  magnificent  roads,  which  ran  straight  from 
town  to  town.  The  modern  railways  of  England  often  follow 
the  line  of  these  Roman  roads.  Agriculture  and  the  useful  arts 
prospered.  Many  came  from  Italy,  and  built  temples,  palaces, 
public  baths,  and  other  splendid  structures,  living  in  great  luxury 
and  delight.  Their  beautiful  floors,  composed  of  differently 
colored  brick,  and  arranged  in  elegant  patterns,  are  occasionally 
unearthed  — for  cornfields  and  meadows  now  cover  this  Roman 
splendor,  and  new  cities  have  risen  upon  the  ruins  of  the  old. 

But  Roman  civilization  was  arrested  and  modified  by  the 
calamities  of  the  fifth  century.  In  the  anarchy  and  bloodshed 
of  barbarian  invasion,  the  Romanized  Britons,  who  had  thus  far 
preserved  their  national  identity,  went  down;  albeit,  in  their  fall, 
they  were  as  forest  leaves  strewn  by  autumnal  winds  — leaving 
behind  them  a fertilizing  power  in  the  soil,  whence  other  trees 
should  bud  and  bloom  in  the  light  of  other  summers,  and  gather 
strength  to  battle  with  the  inclemencies  of  other  winters.  The 
imperial  armies  brought  with  them  the  Christian  faith;  and 
Britain,  about  to  undergo  a new  yoke,  had  received  the  principle 
that  was  destined  to  save  her  from  complete  desolation.  Even 
in  the  savage  North,  where  Roman  arms  had  failed  to  penetrate, 
Christ  had  conquered  souls. 

Anglo-Saxon  Conquest. — In  the  north  and  west,  sheltered 
by  their  mountain  fastnesses,  were  the  Celtic  Piets  and  Silures , 
whom  no  severity  could  reduce  to  subjection  and  no  resistance 


G FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 

restrain  from  plunder.  For  two  centuries  they  had  been  the 
terror  of  the  civilized  Britons,  as  wild  animals  harass  and  perse- 
cute the  tame  of  their  own  species. 

Side  by  side  with  them,  and  often  driving  them  back  upon 
their  own  territory,  were  the  Scots,  a Celtic  tribe  originally  from 
Ireland,  whence  they  crossed  in  so  great  a number  in  their  little 
flat-bottomed  boats  as  Anally  to  give  their  own  name  to  the  dis- 
trict they  invaded.  In  368  we  find  their  united  hordes  pursuing 
their  depredations  as  far  as  London,  and  repelled  with  great  diffi- 
culty by  Theodosius,  a Roman  general. 

Soon  thereafter  the  Empire  began  falling  in  pieces,  and  at 
length  its  legions  were  wholly  withdrawn  from  Britain  for  the 
defense  of  Italy  against  the  Goths.  The  heart  of  the  Britons  was 
faint.  They  had  been  so  long  defended  by  their  Roman  masters 
that  when  left  alone  they  were  incapable  of  defending  themselves. 
Piteously,  but  vainly,  they  entreated  once  more  for  protection, 
exclaiming,  ‘ The  barbarians  drive  us  to  the  sea,  and  the  sea 
drives  us  back  to  the  barbarians.’  In  their  extremity  they 
applied,  with  the  usual  promises  of  land  and  pay,  to  the  Germanic 
tribes  of  the  Jutes,  who,  driven  by  the  pressure  of  want  or  of  foes 
from  the  sunless  woods  and  foggy  clime  of  their  native  Jutland, 
had  already  spread  their  ravages  along  the  eastern  shores  of 
Britain,  and  whose  pirate-boats  were  not  improbably  cruising  off 
the  coast  at  the  moment, — 

‘Then,  sad  relief,  from  the  bleak  coast  that  hears 
The  German  Ocean  roar,  deep-blooming,  strong. 

And  yellow-haired,  the  blue-eyed  Saxon1  came.’ 

They  came  to  stay — to  settle  a people  and  to  found  a state. 
The  fame  of  their  adventure  attracted  others,  till,  their  numbers 
swelling,  they  treacherously  turned  their  arms  against  the  nation 
they  came  to  protect,  and  established  themselves  on  the  fruitful 
plains  of  Kent. 

From  the  sand-flats  of  Holstein  and  the  morasses  of  Friesland 
swarmed  the  Saxons  in  successive  bands,  and  settled,  with 
sword  and  battle-axe,  to  the  south,  west  and  east,  founding  the 
kingdoms  of  Sussex , TI ressex  and  Kssex. 

From  the  wild  waste  of  Sleswick,  swept  by  the  blast  of  the 
North,  wan  and  ominous,  poured  the  Angles  in  a series  of 

1 A generic  name  by  which  they  and  their  neighbors  were  known  to  the  Romans, 
though  conveniently  applied  in  particular  to  a southern  tribe. 


SAXON  SETTLERS. 


7 

descents,  and  slowly,  over  deserted  walls  and  polluted  shrines, 
penetrated  into  the  interior,  effecting  the  settlements  of  North- 
umberland, Anglia  and  Mercia.  They  seem  to  have  been  the 
most  numerous  and  energetic  of  the  invaders,  since  they  occupied 
larger  districts,  and  in  the  end  gave  their  name  to  the  land  and 
its  people.  It  was  now  that  Britain  began  to  be  called  Angle- 
land , subsequently  contracted  into  England ’,  meaning  the  ‘ land  of 
the  Angles,’  or  ‘English.’ 

After  nearly  two  hundred  years  of  bitter  warfare  the  island 
was  given  over  to  the  dominion  of  the  pagan  conquerors,  who 
meantime  grouped  themselves  into  the  several  petty  kingdoms 
indicated,  which  were  collectively  known  as  the  Heptarchy . 
Their  history  is  like  a history  of  ‘kites  and  crows.’  Freed  from 
the  common  pressure  of  war  against  the  Britons,  they  turned  their 
energies  to  combats  with  one  another.  Little  by  little,  as  the  tide 
of  supremacy  rolled  backward  and  forward,  one  predominated  over 
the  others,  till  eventually  they  were  all  made  subject  to  Wessex 
in  the  year  827,  and  for  the  first  time  there  was  something  like 
national  unity,  with  the  promise  of  national  development. 

Effects. — The  conquest,  stubbornly  resisted  and  hardly  won, 
was  a sheer  dispossession  of  the  conquered.  Priests  were  slain  at 
the  altar,  churches  fired,  peasants  driven  by  the  flames  to  fling 
themselves  on  rings  of  pitiless  steel.  Some,  the  wealthier,  fled  in 
panic  across  the  Channel,  and  took  refuge  with  their  kindred  in 
Brittany.  Others,  who  would  still  be  free,  retired  to  Wales, 
which  became  the  secure  retreat  of  Christianity.  The  rest,  who 
were  not  cut  down,  were  enslaved.  These  are  they  who,  attached 
to  the  soil,  will  rise  gradually  with  the  rise  of  industry,  and  spread 
by  amalgamation  through  all  ranks  of  society.  In  the  ascendency 
of  the  Saxon,  who  caused  his  own  language,  customs,  and  laws  to 
become  paramount,  was  laid  the  sure  foundation  of  the  future 
nation — the  one  German  state  that  rose  on  the  wreck  of  Rome. 

It  is  in  this  sanguinary  and  ineffectual  struggle  that  romance 
places  the  fair  Rowena,  of  fatal  charms,  with  her  golden  wine- 
cup;  the  enchanter  Merlin,  who  instructs  Yortigern,  king  of  the 
Britons,  how  to  find  the  two  sleeping  dragons  that  hinder  the 
building  of  his  tower;  the  famous  Arthur,  with  his  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table: 


8 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


‘The  fellowship  of  the  table  round. 

So  famous  in  those  days, 

Whereat  a hundred  noble  knights, 

And  thirty  sat  always.’ 

Danish  Conquest. — But  Saxon  Britain  was  also  to  be 
brought  to  the  brink  of  that  servitude  or  extermination  which 
her  arms  had  brought  upon  the  Celt.  About  the  end  of  the 
eighth  century,  the  roving  Northmen,1  pouring  redundant  from 
their  bleak  and  barren  regions,  began  to  hover  off  the  English 
coast,  growing  in  numbers  and  hardihood  as  they  crept  southward 
to  the  Thames.  For  two  hundred  years  the  raven  — dark  and 
dreaded  emblem  of  the  Dane — was  the  terror  and  scourge  of 
Saxon  homes.  After  a long  series  of  disasters,  aggravated  by 
internal  feuds,  Danish  kings  occupied  the  throne  from  1016  till 
1042,  when  the  Saxon  line  was  restored  in  the  person  of  Edward 
the  Confessor. 

Effects. — The  same  wild  panic,  as  the  light  black  skiffs  strike 
inland  along  the  river  reaches  or  moor  around  the  river  islets; 
the  same  sights  of  horror  — reddened  horizons,  slaughtered  men, 
and  children  tossed  on  spikes  or  sold  in  the  market-place. 
Christian  priests  were  again  slain  at  the  altar.  Coveting  their 
treasures  of  gold  and  silver,  but  despising  their  more  valuable 
ones  of  knowledge,  they  made  use  of  books  in  setting  fire  to 
the  monasteries.  Letters  and  religion  disappeared  before  these 
Northmen  as  before  the  Northmen  of  old.  The  arts  of  peace 
were  forgotten.  Light  was  all  but  quenched  in  a chaotic  and 
muddy  ignorance.  To  an  England  that  had  forgotten  its  origins 
was  brought  back  the  barbaric  England  of  its  pirate  forefathers. 

When  it  is  considered  that  the  invaders  were  nearly  half 
as  many  as  the  invaded,  we  are  prepared  to  believe  that  their 
influence  in  language,  in  physical  type,  in  manners,  was  far 
greater  than  is  usually  conceded. 

Norman  Conquest. — When  the  great  comet  of  1060  waved 
over  England, ^the  enervated  Saxon  looked  up  and  beheld  what 
seemed  to  him  a portent  that  should,  as  Milton  describes  it, 

‘ shake  from  its  horrid  hair 

Pestilence  and  war.’ 

In  the  ninth  century,  the  Northmen  — these  same  daring  and 

1 The  terms  Northmen , Norsemen , or  Scandinavians , are  general  designations  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Scandinavia  (Norway,  Sweden  and  Denmark),  who  at  about  this  period  were 
called,  without  distinction,  Banes. 


NORMAN  OPPRESSORS. 


9 


rapacious  warriors  — penetrated  into  France,  and  in  913  had 
settled  in  the  northern  part,  where,  blending  with  the  French 
and  adopting  their  language,  they  rapidly  grew  up  into  great 
prosperity  and  power.  Their  name  was  softened  into  Normans , 
and  their  settlement  was  called  Normandy,  meaning  the  ‘Land 
of  the  North-man.’ 

In  1066,  polished  and  transformed  by  the  infusion  of  foreign 
blood,  the  Normans,  in  their  well-knit  coats  of  mail,  with  sword 
and  lance,  invaded  and  subdued  England  in  the  single  battle 
of  Hastings,  under  Duke  William,  who  is  therefore  known  as 
William  the  Conqueror. 

Oppression. — The  Norman  was  in  a hostile  country;  and,  to 
maintain  himself,  became  an  oppressor.  He  appropriated  the 
soil,  levied  taxes,  built  for  himself  castles,  with  their  parapets 
and  loop-holes,  their  outer  and  inner  courts  — of  which,  within  a 
century,  there  were  eleven  hundred  and  fifteen.  William,  as  his 
power  grew,  went  from  a show  of  justice  to  ferocity.  Wherever 
his  resentment  was  provoked  — wherever  submission  to  his  exac- 
tions was  refused — were  the  red  lights  of  his  burnings.  Men  ate 
human  flesh  under  the  pressure  of  consuming  famine;  the  perish- 
ing sold  themselves  into  slavery  to  obtain  food;  corpses  rotted  in 
the  highways  because  none  were  left  to  bury  them.  The  invaders 
— sixty  thousand  — are  an  armed  colony.  The  Saxon  is  made  a 
body  slave  on  his  own  estate.  For  an  offence  against  the  forest 
laws  he  will  lose  his  eyes.  At  eight  o’clock  he  is  warned  by  the 
ringing  of  the  curfew  bell  to  cover  up  his  fire  and  retire.  ‘ What 
savage  unsocial  nights,’  says  Lamb,  ‘ must  our  ancestors  have 
spent,  wintering  in  caves  and  unilluminated  fastnesses ! They 
must  have  lain  about  and  grumbled  at  one  another  in  the  dark. 
What  repartees  could  have  passed  when  you  must  have  felt  about 
for  a smile,  and  handled  your  neighbor’s  cheek  to  be  sure  that  he 
understood  it?’  Villages  are  swept  away  to  make  hunting  grounds 
for  Norman  monarchs.  A Norman  abbot  digs  up  the  bones  of  his 
predecessors,  and  throws  them  without  the  gates.  In  a word, 
England,  in  forced  and  sullen  repose,  was  under  a galling  yoke, 
and  to  all  outward  appearances  was  French. 

Effects. — (1.)  Introduction  of  Feudalism, — the  distribution 
of  land  among  military  captains,  to  hold  by  the  sword  what 
the  sword  had  won.  In  twenty  years  from  the  coronation  of 


10 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


William,  almost  the  whole  of  English  soil  had  been  divided,  on 
condition  of  fealty  and  assistance,  among  his  followers,  while  the 
peasantry  were  bound  as  serfs.  The  meanest  Norman  rose  to 
wealth  and  power.  Here  is  the  ordinance  of  the  great  feudal 
principle  of  service  : 

‘We  command  that  all  earls,  barons,  knights,  sergeants  and  freemen  be  always  pro- 
vided with  horses  and  arms  as  they  ought,  and  that  they  be  always  ready  to  perform  to  us 
their  whole  service,  in  manner  as  they  owe  it  to  us  of  right  for  their  fees  and  tenements, 
and  as  we  have  appointed  to  them  by  the  common  council  of  our  whole  kingdom,  and  as  we 
have  granted  to  them  in  fee  with  right  of  inheritance.’ 

Of  the  native  proprietors  many  perished,  others  were  impov- 
erished, and  some  retained  their  estates  as  vassals  of  Norman 
lords.  To  cast  off  the  chains  of  feudality  will  be  the  labor  of  six 
centuries. 

(2.)  Introduction  of  Chivalry,1  or  Knighthood,  a military 
institution  which  was  prompted  by  an  enthusiastic  benevolence 
and  combined  with  religious  ceremonies,  the  avowed  purpose  of 
which  was  to  protect  the  weak  and  defend  the  right.  It  appears 
to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  military  distinction  by  which  certain 
feudal  tenants  were  bound  to  serve  on  horseback,  equipped  with 
the  coat  of  mail.  He  who  thus  fought,  and  had  been  invested 
with  helmet,  shield  and  spear  in  a solemn  manner,  wanted  noth- 
ing more  to  render  him  a knight.  From  the  advantages  of  the 
mounted  above  the  ordinary  combatant,  probably  arose  that  far- 
famed  valor  and  keen  thirst  for  renown  which  ultimately  became 
the  essential  qualities  of  a knightly  character. 

(3.)  Introduction  of  French  speech.  This  became  the  lan- 
guage of  the  court  and  polite  literature.  As  late  as  the  middle 
of  the  fourteenth  century  it  was  said:  ‘Children  in  scole,  agenst 
the  usage  and  manir  of  all  other  nations,  beeth  compelled  for  to 
leve  hire  (their)  owne  langage,  and  for  to  construe  hir  (their) 
lessons  and  hir  thynges  in  Frenche,  and  so  they  haveth  sethe 
Normans  came  first  into  England.’  They  made  such  a point  of 
this  that  nobles  sent  their  sons  to  France  to  preserve  them  from 
barbarisms.  Students  of  the  universities  were  obliged  to  converse 
either  in  French  or  Latin.  ‘Gentilmen  children  beeth  taught  to 
speke  Frensche  from  the  tyme  they  bith  rokked  in  hire  cradell 
. . . and  uplondish  men  will  likne  himself  to  gentylmen,  and 
fondeth  with  great  besynesse  for  to  speke  Frensche  to  be  told  of.’ 

1 From  the  French  cheval,  a horse. 


NORMAN  INFLUENCE. 


11 


(4.)  Introduction  of  French  poetry.  Of  course,  the  Norman, 
who  despised  the  Saxon,  loved  none  but  French  ideas  and  verses. 

(5.)  Expulsion  of  the  English  language  from  literature  and 
culture.  No  longer  or  scarcely  written,  ceasing  to  be  studied  in 
schools  or  to  be  spoken  in  higher  life,  English  became  the  badge 
of  inferiority  and  dependence.  Thus  ox , calf  \ sheep , pig,  deer , 
are  Anglo-Saxon  names;  while  beef,  veal , mutton , pork , and 
venison  are  Norman-French:  because  it  was  the  business  of  the 
former  part  of  the  population  to  tend  these  animals  while  living, 
but  of  the  latter  to  eat  them  when  prepared  for  the  feast.  The 
distinction  is  noticed  in  his  sprightly  way  by  Walter  Scott: 

‘“Why,  how  call  you  those  grunting  brutes  running  about  on  their  four  legs?” 
demanded  Wamba. 

“Swine,  fool,  swine,”  said  the  herd;  “ every  fool  knows  that.” 

“And  swine  is  good  Saxon,”  said  the  Jester;  “but  how  call  you  the  sow  when  she 
is  flayed  and  drawn  and  quartered,  and  hung  by  the  heels  like  a traitor?” 

“Pork,”  answered  the  swineherd. 

“I  am  very  glad  every  fool  knows  that  too,”  said  Wamba;  “and  pork,  I think,  is 
good  Norman  French ; and  so  when  the  brute  lives,  and  is  in  charge  of  a Saxon  slave, 
she  goes  by  her  Saxon  name ; but  becomes  a Norman,  and  is  called  pork,  when  she  is 
carried  to  the  castle  hall  to  feast  among  the  nobles.  What  dost  thou  think  of  this 
doctrine,  friend  Gurth,  ha?” 

“It  is  but  too  true  doctrine,  friend  Wamba,  however  it  got  into  thy  fool’s  pate.” 

“Nay,  I can  tell  you  more,”  said  Wamba,  in  the  same  tone.  “There  is  old  Aider- 
man  Ox  continues  to  hold  his  Saxon  epithet  while  he  is  under  the  charge  of  serfs  and 
barbarians  such  as  thou;  but  becomes  beef,  a fiery  French  gallant,  when  he  arrives 
before  the  worshipful  jaws  that  are  destined  to  consume  him.  Mynheer  Calf,  too, 
becomes  Monsieur  de  Veau  in  the  like  manner.  He  is  Saxon  when  he  requires  tend- 
ance, and  takes  a Norman  name  when  he  becomes  matter  of  enjoyment.”  ’ 

Thus  does  language,  as  we  shall  have  further  occasion  to 
observe,  bear  the  marks  and  footprints  of  revolutions, — the  ark 
that  rides  above  the  water-floods  which  sweep  away  other  memo- 
rials of  vanished  ages. 

(6.)  Finally,  the  establishment  of  a foreign  king,  a foreign 
prelacy,  a foreign  nobility,  the  degradation  of  the  conquered,  and 
the  division  of  power  and  riches  among  the  conquerors.  But  the 
absence  of  internal  wars,  due  to  the  firm  government  of  foreign 
kings,  will  afford  time  for  a varied  progress.  The  stern  disci- 
pline of  these  two  hundred  years  will  give  administrative  order 
and  judicial  reform. 

Fusion. — But  the  great  masses  always  form  the  race  in  the 
end,  and  generally  the  genius  and  the  language.  If  the  spirit  be 
not  broken,  tyranny  is  but  a passing  storm  which  purifies  while  it 
devastates.  The  people  remember  their  native  rank  and  their 


12 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD — THE  PEOPLE. 


original  independence.  At  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century  there 
were  Saxon  families  who  had  bound  themselves  by  a perpetual 
vow  to  wear  long  beards  from  father  to  son  in  memory  of  the  old 
national  custom.  These  subjects,  trodden  and  vilified,  had  the 
characteristic  doggedness,  and  their  predominance  was  sure. 

A long  time  is  required  to  convert  a mutual  hatred  into  har- 
mony and  peace.  Two  and  a half  centuries  were  needed.  Among 
the  various  agencies  that  worked  upon  the  hearts  and  habits  of 
Norman  and  Saxon  may  be  reckoned  that  of  the  clergy.  Never 
altogether  partisan,  they  constantly  became  less  so.  When 
Anselm  came  over  from  his  Norman  convent  to  be  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  he  told  his  countrymen  plainly  that  a churchman 
acknowledged  no  distinction  of  race.  Ambitious  and  luxurious 
as  some  were,  others  were  humble  and  self-denying,  and  stood 
between  the  conqueror  and  the  people,  a healing  influence  to 
mitigate  oppression. 

The  wars  of  the  Normans  made  them  more  dependent  on  the 
Saxons,  and  common  victories  served  to  produce  a community  of 
interest  and  feeling. 

The  Crusades,  too,  by  the  predominant  sentiment  which  they 
inspired,  doubtless  helped  to  appease  the  old  animosities. 

The  gradual  change  in  the  relation  of  the  two  races,  as  well  as 
an  important  influence  in  accelerating  that  change,  is  shown  by 
the  marriage  of  Henry  the  First  to  a Saxon  princess,  which  soon 
led  to  the  restoration  of  the  Saxon  dynasty  in  the  person  of 
Henry  the  Second.  ‘At  present,’  says  an  author  in  the  time  of 
this  monarch,  ‘as  the  English  and  Normans  dwell  together,  and 
have  constantly  intermarried,  the  two  nations  are  so  completely 
mingled  together,  that,  at  least  as  regards  freemen,  one  can 
scarcely  distinguish  who  is  Norman  and  who  English.’ 

The  loss  of  Normandy  snapped  the  threads  of  French  connec- 
tions, and  the  Normans,  by  the  necessities  of  their  isolation, 
began  to  regard  England  as  their  home,  and  the  English  as  their 
countrymen. 

Add  to  these  causes  the  softening  influence  of  time,  and  we 
are  prepared  for  that  final  fusion  of  the  Normans  with  the  mass 
by  which  the  nation  became  one  again. 

English,  though  shunned  by  cultivation  and  rank,  remained 
unshaken  as  the  popular  tongue.  The  Norman,  too,  must  learn 


CELTIC  MANNERS. 


13 


it,  in  order  to  direct  his  tenants.  His  Saxon  wife  speaks  it,  his 
children  are  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  it.  Slowly,  by  com- 
promise and  the  necessity  of  being  understood,  it  prevails, — 
English  still  in  root  and  sap,  though  saturated  with  the  vocabu- 
lary of  Norman-French. 

But  truly  to  understand  the  chemistry  of  the  English  nation, 
we  must  penetrate  its  soul,  learn  somewhat  of  its  faculties  and 
feelings,  study  the  man  invisible  — the  under-world  of  events  and 
forms  — distinguish  the  separate  moulds  in  which  the  entering 
elements  were  cast. 

Celtic. — To  estimate  the  advantages  of  law  and  order,  we 
must  have  stood  with  the  stately  blue-eyed  Briton  in  his  circular 
hut  of  timber  and  reeds,  surmounted  by  a conical  roof  which 
served  at  once  to  admit  daylight  and  to  allow  smoke  to  escape 
through  a hole  in  the  top;  have  seen  a horseman  ride  in,  con- 
verse with  the  inmates,  then  kick  the  sides  of  his  steed  and  make 
his  exit  without  having  alighted;  have  sat  in  circle  with  the 
guests,  each  with  his  block  of  wood  and  piece  of  meat;  have  seen 
the  whole  family  lie  down  to  savage  dreams  around  the  central 
fire-place,  while  the  wolf’s  long  howl  broke  the  silence  of  forest 
depth  or  wild  fowls  screamed  across  the  wilderness  of  shallow 
waters;  have  wandered  through  their  track-ways,  careful  to  hasten 
home  before  the  setting  of  the  sun  should  cut  us  off  from  our 
village  (a  collection  of  huts  amid  fens  and  woods  fortified  with 
ramparts  and  ditches)  to  become  the  captive  of  an  enemy  or  the 
prey  of  ravenous  beast. 

There  is  no  property  but  arms  and  cattle.  War  is  the  favorite 
occupation.  Bronze  swords,  spears,  axes,  and  chariots  with 
scythes  projecting  from  the  axle  of  the  wheels,  are  the  weapons. 
Every  tribe  has  its  own  chief  or  chiefs,  who  call  the  common 
people  together  and  confer  with  them  upon  all  matters  concern- 
ing the  general  welfare.  The  cran-tcira , a stick  burnt  at  the  end 
and  dipped  in  blood,  carried  by  a dumb  messenger  from  hamlet 
to  hamlet,  summons  the  warriors.  A brave  people,  and  energetic. 
Says  Tacitus: 

‘The  Britons  willingly  furnish  recruits  to  our  armies;  they  pay  the  taxes  without  mur- 
muring, and  they  perform  with  zeal  their  duties  toward  the  government,  provided  they 


14 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


have  not  to  complain  of  oppression.  When  they  are  offended,  their  resentment  is  prompt 
and  violent;  they  may  be  conquered,  but  not  tamed;  they  may  be  led  to  obedience,  but  not 
to  servitude.’ 

Would  you  know  their  savagery?  Imagine  them  — as  old 
Celtic  story  tells  — mixing  the  brains  of  their  slain  enemies  with 
lime,  and  playing  with  the  hard  balls  they  made  of  them.  Such 
a brainstone  is  said  to  have  g'one  through  the  skull  of  an  Irish 
chief,  who  lived  afterwards  seven  years  with  two  brains  in  his 
head,  always  sitting  very  still,  lest  in  shaking  himself  he  should 
die.  Yet  they  esteem  it  infamous  for  a chieftain  to  close  the 
door  of  his  house  at  all,  ‘ lest  the  stranger  should  come  and 
behold  his  contracting  soul.’ 

Their  dead  are  buried  in  mounds.  Here  vases  are  discovered, 
containing  their  bones  and  ashes,  together  with  their  swords  and 
hatchets,  arrow-heads  of  flint  and  bronze,  and  beads  of  glass  and 
amber, — for  they  believe,  after  the  manner  of  savages,  that 
things  which  are  useful  or  pleasing  to  the  living  are  needed,  for 
pleasure  or  use,  in  the  shadowy  realm: 

‘Secure  beneath  his  ancient  hill 
The  British  warrior  slumbers  still; 

There  lie  in  order,  still  the  same, 

The  bones  which  reared  his  stately  frame; 

Still  at  his  side  his  spear,  his  bow, 

As  placed  two  thousand  years  ago.’ 

The  priests  of  their  religion  are  the  Dr\dds , who  are  so  care- 
ful lest  their  secret  doctrines  be  revealed  to  the  uninitiated  that 
they  teach  their  disciples  in  hidden  caves  and  forest  recesses. 
They  are  the  arbiters  of  disputes,  and  the  judges  of  crime. 
Whoever  refuses  to  submit  to  their  decree  is  banished  from 
human  intercourse.  The  young  resort  to  them  for  instruction. 
They  teach  the  eternal  transmigration  of  souls.  They  will  n#t 
worship  their  gods  under  roofs.  At  noon  and  night,  within  a 
circular  area,  of  enormous  stones  and  of  vast  circumference,1 
they  make  their  appeals  with  sacrifices — captives  and  criminals, 
or  the  innocenrt  and  fair.  When  the  priest  has  ripped  open  the 

1 One  of  these  — Stonehenge  — may  yet  be  seen  standing  in  mysterious  and  awful 
silence  on  Salisbury  Plain.  So  massive  are  the  pieces,  that  it  was  fabled  to  have  been 
built  by  giants  or  magic  art : 

Not  less  than  that  huge  pile  (from  some  abyss 
Of  mortal  power  unquestionably  sprung,) 

Whose  hoary  Diadem  of  pendant  rocks 

Confines  the  shrill -voiced  whirlwind,  round  and  round 

Eddying  within  its  vast  circumference. 

On  Sarum’s  naked  plain. — Wordsworth. 


KOMAN  REFINEMENTS. 


15 


•body  of  a human  being  or  lighted  the  fires  around  a living  mass, 
we  may  hear  the  shriek  of  mad  excitement  as  the  ‘ congregation  ’ 
dance  and  shout.  Nor  is  their  teaching  confined  to  their  worship. 
Says  Caesar: 

‘The  Druids  discuss  many  things  concerning  the  stars  and  their  revolutions,  the 
magnitude  of  the  globe  and  its  various  divisions,  the  nature  of  the  universe,  energy  and 
power  of  the  immortal  gods.’ 

There  are  bards,  also,  with  power  and  privilege,  who  sing  the 
praises  of  British  heroes  to  the  crowd.  A wheel  striking  on 
strings  is  the  instrument  of  these  our  ancestral  lyrists.  Among 
the  three  things  which  will  secure  a man  from  hunger  and  naked- 
ness is  the  blessing  of  a bard.  His  curse  brings  fatalities  upon 
man  and  beast. 

Four  hundred  years  cannot  but  have  made  a vast  difference 
between  the  fierce  savages  who  rushed  into  the  sea  on  that 
•old  September  day,  and  those  who  were  citizens  of  the  stately 
Roman  towns  or  tillers  of  the  fertile  districts  that  lay  around 
them.  Tacitus  is  said  to  have  expressed  surprise  at  the  facility 
and  eagerness  with  which  the  Britons  adopted  the  customs,  the 
arts,  and  the  garb  of  their  conquerors.  Under  the  Roman  Empire 
there  were  British  kings,  of  whom  one  of  the  few  famous  was 
Cunobelin  — the  Cymbeline  of  the  drama.  Government  became 
more  centralized.  A milder  worship  and  a more  merciful  law 
were  the  lot  of  the  people.  The  Romans  improved  the  agriculture 
of  the  country,  and  bestowed  upon  the  cultivators  ‘the  crooked 
plough’  with  ‘an  eight-foot  beam,’ of  which  Virgil  speaks.  In 
the  middle  of  the  fourth  century,  warehouses  were  built  in  Rome 
for  the  reception  of  corn  from  Britain.  An  export  of  six  hundred 
large  barks  in  one  season  assumes  the  existence  of  a large  rural 
population.  The  tin  and  lead  mines  were  worked  with  jealous 
•care  for  Roman  use;  and  the  presence  of  cinders  at  this  day  is 
the  visible  proof  of  the  mining  and  smelting  of  iron. 

The  refinement  thus  introduced  among  the  Celtic  Britons  was 
not  uncommunicated  to  the  barbarous  tribes  whose  occupation 
speedily  followed  the  retirement  of  the  imperial  armies.  Traces 
of  the  Roman  modes  of  thought  are  indelibly  stamped  upon 
much  that  relates  to  common  life.  In  January  survives  the 
‘Two-faced  Janus’;  July  embalms  the  memory  of  the  mighty 
Julius;  March  is  the  month  of  Mars,  the  god  of  war;  and  August 


16 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


claims  an  annual  reverence  for  the  crafty  Augustus.  Our  May- 
day  is  the  festival  of  Flora.  Our  marriage  ceremonies  are  all 
Roman, — the  veil,  the  ring,  the  wedding  gifts,  the  groomsmen 
and  bridesmaids,  the  bride-cake.  Our  funeral  imagery  is  Roman, — 
the  cypress,  the  flowers  strewn  upon  the  graves,  the  black  for 
mourning.  The  girl  who  says,  when  her  ears  tingle,  a distant  one 
is  talking  of  her,  recalls  the  Roman  belief  in  some  influence  of  a 
mesmeric  nature  which  produced  the  same  effect.  ‘A  screech-owl 
at  midnight,’  says  Addison,  ‘ has  alarmed  a family  more  than  a 
band  of  robbers.’  It  was  ever  an  omen  of  evil.  No  Roman 
superstition  was  more  intense.  Men  all  on  fire,  walking  up  and 
down  the  streets,  seemed  to  Casca  a prodigy  less  dire  than  ‘ the 
bird  of  night  ’ that  sat 

‘Even  at  noonday,  upon  the  market-place, 

Hooting  and  shrieking.’ 

But  there  are  latent  qualities  here  which  would  ornament  any 
age.  With  the  skin  of  a beast  slung  across  his  loins,  the  exposed 
parts  of  his  body  painted  with  sundry  figures,  a chain  of  iron 
about  his  neck  as  a symbol  of  wealth,  and  another  about  his 
waist,  his  hair  hanging  in  curling  locks  and  covering  his  shoul- 
ders,— Caractacus  had  stood  captive  in  the  imperial  presence  of 
Claudius,  and  said: 

‘Had  my  moderation  in  prosperity  been  equal  to  the  greatness  of  my  birth  and  estate, 
or  the  success  of  my  late  attempts  been  equal  to  the  resolution  of  my  mind,  I might  have- 
come  to  this  city  rather  as  a friend  to  be  entertained,  than  as  a captive  to  be  gazed  upon. 
But  what  cloud  soever  hath  darkened  my  present  lot,  yet  have  the  Heavens  and  Nature 
given  me  that  in  birth  and  mind  which  none  can  vanquish  or  deprive  me  of.  I well  see  that 
you  make  other  men's  miseries  the  subject  and  matter  of  your  triumphs,  and  in  this  nfy 
calamity,  as  in  a still  water,  you  now  contemplate  your  own  glory.  Yet  know  that  I am, 
and  was,  a prince,  furnished  with  strength  of  men  and  habiliments  of  war;  and  what  marvel 
is  it  if  all  be  lost,  seeing  experience  teacheth  that  the  events  of  war  are  variable,  and  the 
success  of  policies  guided  by  uncertain  fates?  As  it  is  with  me,  who  thought  that  the  deep- 
waters,  like  a wall  enclosing  our  land,  and  it  so  situated  by  the  gods  as  might  have  been  a 
suflicient  privilege  and  defense  against  foreign  invasions;  but  now  I perceive  that  the 
desire  of  your  sovereignty  admits  no  limitation;  and  if  you  Romans  must  command  all, 
then  all  must  obey.  For  mine  own  part,  while  I was  able  I made  resistance;  and  unwilling 
1 was  to  submit  my  neck  to  a servile  yoke;  so  far  the  law  of  Nature  alloweth  every  man, 
that  he  may  defend  himself  being  assailed,  and  to  withstand  force  by  force.  Had  I at  first 
yielded,  thy  glory  and  my  ruin  had  not  been  so  renowned.  Fortune  hath  now  done  her 
worst;  we  have  nothing  left  us  but  our  lives,  which  if  thou  take  from  us,  our  miseries  end, 
and  if  thou  spare  us,  we  are  but  the  objects  of  thy  clemency.’ 

In  many-colored  robe,  with  a golden  zone  about  her,  Queen 
Boadicea  exhorted  the  Britons  on  the  eve  of  battle: 

‘My  friends  and  companions  of  equal  fortunes! — There  needeth  no  excuse  of  this  my 
present  authority  or  place  in  regard  of  my  sex,  seeing  it  is  not  unknown  to  you  all  that  the 


CELTIC  FANCY. 


17 


wonted  manner  of  our  nation  hath  been  to  war  under  the  conduct  of  women.  My  blood 
and  birth  might  challenge  some  preeminence,  as  sprung  from  the  roots  of  most  royal 
descents;  but  my  breath,  received  from  the  same  air,  my  body  sustained  by  the  same 
soil,  and  my  glory  clouded  with  imposed  ignominies,  I disdain  all  superiority,  and,  as  a 
fellow  in  bondage,  bear  the  yoke  of  oppression  with  as  heavy  weight  and  pressure,  if  not 
more!  . . . You  that  have  known  the  freedom  of  life,  will  with  me  confess  that  liberty, 
though  in  a poor  estate,  is  better  than  bondage  with  fetters  of  gold.  . . . Have  the  Heavens 
made  us  the  ends  of  the  world,  and  not  assigned  the  end  of  our  wrongs?  Or  hath  Nature, 
among  all  our  free  works,  created  us  Britons  only  for  bondage?  Why,  what  are  the  Romans? 
Are  they  more  than  men,  or  immortal?  Their  slain  carcasses  sacrificed  by  us,  and  their 
putrefied  blood  corrupting  our  air,  doth  tell  us  they  are  no  gods.  Our  persons  are  more  tall, 
our  bodies  more  strong,  and  our  joints  better  knit  than  theirs!  But  you  will  say— they  are 
our  conquerors.  Indeed,  overcome  we  are,  but  by  ourselves,  by  our  own  ( factions,  still 
giving  way  to  their  intrusions.  . . . See  we  not  the  army  of  Plautius  crouched  together  like 
fowls  in  a storm?  If  we  but  consider  the  number  of  their  forces  and  the  motives  of  the  war, 
we  shall  resolve  to  vanquish  or  die.  It  is  better  worth  to  fall  m honour  of  liberty,  than  be 
exposed  again  to  the  outrages  of  the  Romans.  This  is  my  resolution,  who  am  but  a woman ; 
you  who  are  men  may,  if  you  please,  live  and  be  slaves.’ 

Love  of  bright  color  is  a Celtic  passion.  Diodorus  told  how 
the  Gauls  wore  bracelets  and  costly  finger-rings,  gold  corselets, 
dyed  tunics  flowered  with  various  hues,  striped  cloaks  fastened 
with  a brooch  and  divided  into  many  parti-colored  squares,  a 
taste  still  represented  by  the  Highland  plaid.  This  joy  in  the 
beautiful  will  display  itself,  in  poetry,  in  an  outpouring  of 
imagery  and  grace  of  expression,  as  in  the  Cymric1  battle-ode  of 
Aneurin: 

‘ Have  ye  seen  the  tusky  boar,  ^ 

Or  the  bull  with  sullen  roar, 

On  surrounding  foes  advancing  ? 

So  Garadawg  bore  his  lance. 

As  the  flame’s  devouring  force. 

As  the  whirlwind  in  its  course, 

As  the  thunder’s  fiery  stroke, 

Glancing  on  the  shivered  oak; 

Did  the  sword  of  Yodel's  mow 
The  crimson  harvest  of  the  foe.’ 

This  fancy,  active  and  bold,  is  not  content  to  conceive.  It  must 
draw  and  paint,  vividly,  in  detail,  as  in  this  glimpse  of  a Gaelic2 
banquet: 

‘As  the  king’s  people  were  afterwards  at  the  assembly  they  saw  a couple  approaching 
them,— a woman  and  a man;  larger  than  the  summit  of  a rock  or  a mountain  was  each 
member  of  their  members;  sharper  than  a shaving-knife  the  edge  of  their  shins;  their  heels 
and  hams  in  front  of  them.  Should  a sackful  of  apples  be  thrown  on  their  heads,  not  one  of 
them  would  fall  to  the  ground,  but  would  stick  on  the  points  of  the  long  bristly  hair  which 
grew  out  of  their  heads;  blacker  than  the  coal  or  darker  than  the  smoke  was  each  of  their 
membei's ; whiter  than  snow  their  eyes.  A lock  of  the  lower  beard  was  carried  round  the 
back  of  the  head,  and  a lock  of  the  upper  beard  descended  so  as  to  cover  the  knees;  the 
woman  had  whiskers,  but  the  man  was  without  whiskers.’ 


Ancient  Welsh. 


2 Ancient  Irish. 


18 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


But  the  true  artist,  with  an  eye  to  see,  has  also  a heart  to  feel. 
A bard  and  a prince,  who  has  seen  his  sons  fall  in  battle,  wonder- 
ing why  he  should  still  be  left,  sings  of  his  youngest  and  last  dead: 

‘ Let  the  wave  break  noisily ; let  it  cover  the  shore  when  the  joined  lancers  are  in  battle. 
O,  Gwcnn,  woe  to  him  who  is  too  old,  since  he  has  lost  you!  Let  the  wave  break  noisily; 
let  it  cover  the  plain  when  the  lancers  join  with  a shock.  . . . Gwenn  has  been  slain  at  the 
ford  of  Morlas.  Here  is  the  bier  made  for  him  by  his  fierce-conquered  enemy  after  he 
had  been  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  army  of  the  Lloegrians;  here  is  the  tomb  of 
Gwenn,  the  son  of  the  old  Llywarch.  Sweetly  a bird  sang  on  a pear  tree  above  the  head  of 
Gwenn , before  they  covered  him  with  turf;  that  broke  the  heart  of  the  old  Llywarch.' 

This  vivacity,  this  tenderness,  this  sweet  melancholy,  will  pass,  to 
a certain  degree,  into  English  thought. 

Danish.  — The  Danes  were  preeminently  a sea-faring  and 
piratical  people  — vultures  who  swept  the  seas  in  quest  of  prey. 
Their  sea-kings,  ‘ who  had  never  slept  under  the  smoky  rafters 
of  a roof,  who  had  never  drained  the  ale-horn  by  an  inhabited 
hearth,’  are  renowned  in  the  stories  of  the  North.  With  no  terri- 
tory but  the  waves,  no  dwelling  but  their  two-sailed  ships,  they 
laughed  at  the  storm,  and  sang:  ‘The  blast  of  the  tempest  aids- 
our  oars;  the  bellowing  of  heaven,  the  howling  of  the  thunder, 
hurts  us  not;  the  hurricane  is  our  servant,  and  drives  us  whither 
we  wish  to  go.’  In  his  last  hour,  the  sea-king  looks  gladly  to  his 
immortal  feasts  ‘ in  the  seats  of  Balder’s  father,’  where  £ we*shall 
drink  ale  continually  from  the  large  hollowed  skulls.’ 

Listen  to  their  table-talk,  and  from  it  infer  the  rest.  A 3*outh 
takes  his  seat  beside  the  Danish  jarl,  arid  is  reproached  with 
‘ seldom  having  provided  the  wolves  with  hot  meat,  with  never 
having  seen  for  the  whole  autumn  a raven  croaking’  over  the 
carnage.’  But  he  pacifies  her  by  singing:  ‘I  have  marched  with 
my  bloody  sword,  and  the  raven  has  followed  me.  Furiously  we 
fought,  the  fire  passed  over  the  dwellings  of  men;  we  have  sent 
to  sleep  in  blood  those  who  kept  the  gates.’ 

Here  is  their  code  of  honor:  ‘A  brave  man  should  attack  two, 
stand  firm  against  three,  give  ground  a little  to  four,  and  only 
retreat  from  five.’  No  wonder  they  were  irresistible.  Add  to 
this  the  deeper  incitement  of  an  immortality  in  Valhalla,  where 
they  should  forever  hew  each  other  in  bloodless  conflict. 

When  Saxon  independence  was  given  up  to  a Danish  king, 
their  character  was  greatly  changed  from  what  it  had  been  during* 
their  first  invasions.  They  had  embraced  the  Christian  faith,  were 


NORMAN"  CULTURE. 


19 


centralized,  had  lost  much  of  their  predatory  and  ferocious  spirit. 
Long  settled  in  England,  they  gradually  became  assimilated  to 
the  natives,  whose  laws  and  language  were  not  radically  different 
from  their  own.  From  these  sea-wolves,  who  lived  on  the  pillage 
of  the  world,  the  English  will  imbibe  their  maritime  enterprise. 

Norman. — The  Normans,  as  we  have  seen,  were  a Scandina- 
vian tribe  with  a changed  nature, — Christianized,  at  least  in  the 
mediaeval  sense,  and  civilized.  The  peculiar  quality  of  their 
genius  was  its  suppleness.  They  intermarried  with  the  French, 
borrowed  the  French  language,  adopted  French  customs,  imitated 
French  thought;  and,  in  a hundred  and  fifty  years  after  their 
settlement,  were  so  far  cultured  as  to  consider  their  kinsmen,  the 
Saxons,  unlettered  and  rude. 

Transferred  to  England,  they  become  English.  To  these  they 
were  superior: 

1.  In  refinement  of  manners.  ‘ The  Saxons,’  says  an  old 
writer,  ‘ vied  with  each  other  in  their  drinking  feats,  and  wasted 
their  income  by  day  and  night  in  feasting,  whilst  they  lived  in 
wretched  hovels  ; the  French  and  Normans,  on  the  other  hand, 
living  inexpensively  in  their  fine  large  houses,  were,  besides, 
refined  in  their  food  and  studiously  careful  in  their  dress.’ 

2.  In  taste, — the  art  of  pleasing  the  eye,  and  expressing 
a thought  by  an  outward  representation.  The  Norman  archi- 
tecture, including:  the  circular  arch  and  the  rose  window  with 
its  elegant  mouldings,  made  its  appearance.  ‘ You  might  see 
amongst  them  ( the  Saxons ) churches  in  every  village,  and 
monasteries  in  the  cities,  towering  on  high,  and  built  in  a 
style  unknown  before.’  They  were  to  become  the  most  skil- 
ful builders  in  Europe. 

3.  In  weapons  and  warlike  enterprise.  They  used  the  bow, 
fought  on  horseback,  and  were  thus  prepared  for  a more  nimble 
and  aggressive  movement. 

4.  In  intellectual  culture.  Five  hundred  and  sixty -seven 
schools  were  established  between  the  Conquest  and  the  death 
of  King  John  (1216).  In  poetry  they  were  relatively  cultivated. 
Another  point  of  excellence  was  the  intelligence  of  their  clergy. 
The  illiteracy  of  the  Saxon  was  the  excuse  for  banishing  him 
from  all  valuable  ecclesiastical  dignities.  The  Norman  bishops 
and  abbots,  who  gradually  supplanted  him,  were  for  the  most 


20 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD — THE  PEOPLE. 


part  of  loftier  minds  than  the  mailed  warriors  who  elevated  them 
to  wealth  and  authority. 

Such  were  the  points  of  superiority  at  which  the  Norman  was 
prepared  to  contribute  new  impulses  to  the  national  character. 
In  many  respects,  he  was  the  reverse  of  the  Saxon.  In  the 
movement  of  his  intellect,  he  was  prompt  and  spirited  rather 
than  profound.  Like  the  Parisian,  he  was  polite,  elegant,  grace- 
ful, talkative,  dainty,  superficial.  Beauty  pleased  rather  than 
-exalted  him.  Nature  was  pretty  rather  than  grand  — never 
mystical.  Love  was  a pastime  rather  than  a devotion.  Woman 
impressed  him  less  by  any  spiritual  transcendence  than  by  a 
‘ vastly  becoming  smile,’  a 1 sweet  and  perfumed  breath,’  a form 
* white  as  new-fallen  snow  on  a branch.’  To  show  skill  and 
courage  for  the  meed  of  glory,  to  win  the  applause  of  the 
ladies,  to  display  magnificence  of  dress  and  armor, — such  was  his 
desire  and  study.  Here  is  a picture  of  the  fancies  and  splendors 
in  which  he  delights  and  loses  himself.  A king,  wishing  to 
console  his  afflicted  daughter,  proposes  to  take  her  to  the  chase 
in  the  following  style: 

‘To-morrow  ye  shall  in  hunting  fare; 

And  ride,  my  daughter,  in  a chair; 

It  shall  be  covered  with  velvet  red, 

And  clothes  of  fine  gold  all  about  your  head, 

With  damask  white  and  azure  blue, 

Well  diapered  with  lilies  new. 

Your  pommels  shall  be  ended  with  gold, 

Your  chains  enameled  many  a fold, 

Your  mantle  of  rich  degree, 

Purple  pall  and  ermine  free.  . . . 

Ye  shall  have  revel,  dance,  and  song; 

Little  children,  great  and  small, 

Shall  sing  as  does  the  nightingale.  . . . 

A hundred  knights,  truly  told, 

Shall  play  with  bowls  in  alleys  cold, 

Your  disease  to  drive  away.  . . . 

Forty  torches  burning  bright 
At  your  bridge  to  bring  you  light. 

Into  your  chamber  they  shall  you  bring 
* With  much  mirth  and  more  liking. 

Your  blankets  shall  be  of  fustian. 

Your  sheets  shall  be  of  cloth  of  Rennes. 

Your  head  sheet  shall  be  of  pery  pight, 

With  diamonds  set  and  rubies  bright. 

When  you  are  laid  in  bed  so  soft, 

A cage  of  gold  shall  hang  aloft, 

With  long  paper  fair  burning, 

And  cloves  that  be  sweet-smelling, 


ENGLISH  AND  ARYAN. 


21 


Frankincense  and  olibanum, 

That  when  ye  sleep  the  taste  may  come; 

And  if  ye  no  rest  can  take, 

All  night  minstrels  for  you  shall  wake.’ 

What  will  come  of  this  gallantry,  splendor,  and  pride,  when 
the  brilliant  flower  is  engrafted  on  the  homely  Saxon  stock  ? 

Anglo-Saxon. — Starting  from  the  same  Aryan  homestead, 
with  the  same  stock  of  ideas,  with  the  same  manners  and  cus- 
toms, the  Teuton  takes  his  westward  course,  and  settles  chiefly 
in  Germany, — 

‘She  of  the  Danube  and  the  Northern  Sea.’ 

After  centuries  of  separation,  these  two  kindred  meet  in  mist- 
enveloped  Britain.  But  climate,  soil,  and  time  have  changed 
their  characters  and  speech.  They  have  forgotten  their  mutual 
relationship,  and  meet  like  the  lion  whelps  of  a common  lair  — 
^s  foes.  The  Teutonic  stream, — that,  too,  diverged.  Into  the 
mud  and  slime  of  Holland,  into  the  forests  and  fens  of  Denmark, 
up  into  the  snow-capped  mountains  of  Sweden  and  Norway, 
across  the  surging  main  into  volcanic  Iceland,  it  branched.  Dan- 
ish, Norse,  and  Saxon,  with  superficial  distinctions  — as  of  Hea- 
then and  Christian,  or  the  like  — are  at  bottom  one,  Teutonic  or 
Germanic.  Inland,  in  the  south,  away  from  the  sea,  was  the  great 
division  of  the  High-Germans  ; near  the  sea,  by  the  mouths 
of  the  Rhine  and  Elbe,  that  of  the  Low-Germans,  in  whom 
we  have  the  deeper  interest.  To  these  latter  belonged  the 
Jutes,  Angles,  and  Saxons,  whose  language,  closely  resem- 
bling modern  Dutch,  is  the  plantlet  of  English.  These  tribes, 
known  abroad  as  Saxons,1  early  spoken  of  by  themselves  as 
Angles  or  English,  have  in  the  more  careful  historic  use  of  the 
present  been  designated  as  Anglo-Saxons. 

The  orders  of  society  were  the  bond  and  the  free.  Men 
became  serfs,  or  slaves,  either  by  capture  in  battle  or  by  the  sen- 
tence of  outraged  law.  Over  them  their  master  had  the  power 
of  life  and  death.  He  was  responsible  for  them  as  for  his  cattle. 
Rank  was  revered,  and  the  freemen  were  divided  into  earls  and 
ceorls,  or  Earls  and  Churls. 

1 So  called  from  a short  crooked  sword,  called  a seax , carried  by  the  warriors  under 
their  loose  garments.  Thus,  Hengist,  the  Jute,  invited  to  a banquet,  instructed  his  com- 
panions to  conceal  their  short  swords  beneath  their  garments.  At  a given  signal — Nimed 
eure  Seaxes , ‘Draw  your  swords!1 — the  weapons  were  plunged  into  the  hearts  of  their 
British  entertainers. 


22 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


The  basis  of  society  was  the  possession  of  land.  The  free 
land-holder  was  ‘the  free-necked  man,’  whose  long  hair  floated 
over  a neck  that  had  never  bent  to  a lord.  He  was  ‘the  weap- 
oned  man,’  who  alone  bore  spear  and  sword.  A nation  of  farm- 
ers, as  they  had  been  in  the  Sunny  East,  as  they  are  to-day. 
He  might  not  be  a tiller  of  the  soil,  but  he  must  acquire  it  if  he 
would  be  esteemed.  The  landless  one  could  hope  for  no  dis- 
tinction. 

The  social  form  was  determined  by  the  blood-bond.  Accord- 
ing to  kinship,  men  were  grouped  into  companies  of  ten,  called 
a tithing.  Every  ten  tithings  was  called  a hundred’  and  several 
hundreds,  a shire.  Each  kinsman  was  his  kinsman’s  keeper. 
Every  crime  was  held  to  have  been  committed  by  all  who  were 
related  to  the  doer  of  it,  and  against  all  who  were  related  to  the 
sufferer.  From  this  sense  of  the  value  of  the  family  tie  sprung 
the  rudiments  of  English  justice.  So  strong  is  it,  that  his  kins- 
folk are  the  sole  judges  of  the  accused,  for  by  their  oath  of  his 
innocence  or  guilt  he  stands  or  falls.  In  their  British  home  these 
judges  will  be  a fixed  number  — the  germ  of  the  jury  system. 
Other  methods  of  appeal  there  are, — the  duel  and  the  ordeal. 
The  first  pleases  the  savage  nature.  Besides,  is  not  the  issue  in 
the  hand  of  God,  and  will  not  he  award  the  victory  to  the  just  ? 
This  practice  will  be  revived  in  Normandy,  introduced  by  the 
Conqueror  into  England,  appealed  to  in  1631,  and  abolished  only 
in  1817.  The  second  inspires  confidence;  for  fire  and  water  are 
deities,  and  surely  the  gods  will  not  harm  the  innocent  or  screen 
the  guilty?  Therefore,  be  ready  to  lift  masses  of  red-hot  iron  in 
your  hands,  or  to  jDass  through  flame. 

They  hate  cities.  Then,  as  now,  they  must  have  independence 
and  free  air.  Their  villages  are  knots  of  farms.  ‘ They  live  apart, ’’ 
says  Tacitus,  ‘ each  by  himself,  as  woodside,  plain,  or  fresh  spring 
attracts  him.’  Each  settlement  must  be  isolated  from  its  fellows. 
Each  is  jealously  begirt  by  a belt  of  forest  or  fen,  which  parts  it 
from  neighboring  communities, — a ring  of  common  ground  which 
none  may  take  for  his  own,  but  which  serves  as  the  Golgotha 
where  traitors  and  deserters  meet  their  doom.  This,  it  is  said,  is 
the  special  dwelling-place  of  the  nix  and  the  will-o’-the-wisp.  Let 
none  cross  this  death-line  except  he  blow  his  horn;  else  he  will 
be  taken  for  a foe,  and  any  man  may  lawfully  slay  him. 


LEGISLATION  AND  KNOWLEDGE. 


23 


Around  some  moot-hill  or  sacred  tree  the  whole  community 
meet  to  administer  justice  and  to  legislate.  Here  the  field  is 
passed  from  seller  to  buyer  by  the  delivery  of  a turf  cut  from  its 
soil.  Here  the  aggrieved  may  present  his  grievance.  The  4 elder- 
men  ’ state  the  ‘ customs,’  and  the  evil-doer  is  sentenced  to  make 
pecuniary  reparation.  ‘ Eye  for  eye,’  life  for  life , or  for  each  fair 
damages, — is  the  yet  unwritten  code.  The  body  and  its  members 
have  each  their  legal  price.  Only  treason,  desertion,  and  poison 
involve  capital  punishment,  and  sentence  is  pronounced  by  the 
priest.  Here,  too,  the  king  of  the  tribe  — chosen  from  among  the 
ablest  of  its  chiefs  — and  the  JVitafi,  the  Wise  Men,  who  limit  his 
jurisdiction,  convene  to  settle  questions  of  peace  and  war,  or  to 
transact  other  important  affairs.  The  warriors,  met  in  arms, 
express  their  approval  by  rattling  their  armor,  their  dissent  by 
murmurs.  Later,  this  assembly  will  be  known  as  the  Parliament 
of  a great  empire.  Among  the  nobility,  there  is  one  who  is  the 
king’s  chosen  confidant,  the  4 knower  of  secrets,’  the  4 counsellor.’ 
In  after  times  he  will  be  known  as  the  Prime  Minister. 

Knowledge  was  transmitted  less  by  writing  than  by  oral  tradi- 
tion, and  almost  wholly  in  the  form  of  verse.  There  was  a per- 
petual order  of  men,  like  the  rhapsodists  of  ancient  Greece  and 
the  bards  of  the  Celtic  tribes,  who  wrere  at  once  poets  and  histo- 
rians; whose  exclusive  employment  it  was  to  learn  and  repeat;, 
wandering  minstrels  they  were,  travelling  about  from  land  to  land, 
chanting  to  the  people  the  fortunes  of  the  latest  battle  or  the 
exploits  of  their  ancestors,  a delightful  link  of  union,  loved  and 
revered.  The  honors  bestowed  upon  them  were  natural  to  an  age 
in  which  reading  and  writing  were  mysteries.  On  arms,  trinkets, 
amulets,  and  utensils,  sometimes  on  the  bark  of  trees,  and  on 
wooden  tablets,  for  the  purpose  of  memorials  or  of  epistolary  cor- 
respondence, were  engraven  certain  wonderful  characters  called 
runes.  By  their  potent  spells,  some  runes,  it  was  believed, 
could  lull  the  tempest,  stop  the  vessel  in  her  course,  divert  the 
arrow  in  its  flight,  arrest  the  career  of  witches  through  the  air, 
cause  love  or  hatred,  raise  the  dead,  and  extort  from  them  the 
secrets  of  the  spirit-world.  Thus  says  the  heroine  of  a Northern 
romance: 

‘Like  a Virgin  of  the  Shield  I roved  o'er  the  sea, 

My  arm  was  victorious,  my  valor  was  free; 

By  prowess,  by  runic  enchantment  and  song, 

I raised  up  the  weak,  and  I beat  down  the  strong.’ 


24 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


Would  we  know  the  soul  of  a people,  let  us  seek  it  in  their 
religion,  the  unseen  spiritual  fountain  whence  flow  all  their  out- 
ward acts.  In  the  beginning,  we  are  told,  were  two  worlds, — 
Niflheim,  the  frozen,  and  Muspel  the  burning.  From  the  falling 
snow-flakes,  quickened  by  the  Unknown  who  sent  the  heated 
blast,  was  born  Ymer  the  giant: 

‘When  Ymer  lived 
Was  sand,  nor  sea. 

Nor  cooling  wave; 

No  earth  was  found 
Nor  heaven  above; 

One  chaos  all, 

And  nowhere  grass.’ 

Fallen  asleep,  from  his  arm-pits  spring  the  frost-giants.  A 
-cow,  born  also  of  melting  snow,  feeds  him  with  four  milk-rivers. 
Whilst  licking  his  perspiration  from  the  rocks,  there  came  at 
-evening  out  of  the  stones  a man’s  hair,  the  second  day  a man’s 
head,  and  the  third  all  the  man  was  there.  His  name  was  Bure. 
His  grandsons,  Odin,  Vile,  and  Ve,  kill  the  giant  Ymer.  Dragging 
bis  body  to  the  abyss  of  space,  they  form  of  it  the  visible  universe; 
from  his  flesh,  the  land;  from  his  bones,  the  mountains;  from  his 
hair,  the  forests;  from  his  teeth  and  jaws,  the  stones  and  pebbles; 
from  his  blood,  the  ocean,  in  the  midst  of  which  they  fix  the 
earth;  from  his  skull,  the  vaulted  sky,  raised  and  supported  by  a 
•dwarf  under  each  corner, — Austre,  Westre,  Nordre,  and  Sudre, 
from  his  brains,  scattered  in  the  air,  the  melancholy  clouds;  from 
his  hair,  trees  and  plants;  from  his  eyebrows,  a wall  of  defense 
.against  the  giants.  The  flying  sparks  and  red-hot  flakes  cast  out 
of  Muspel  they  placed  in  the  heavens,  and  said:  4 Let  there  be 
light.’  Far  in  the  North  sits  a giant,  ‘the  corpse  swallower,’  clad 
with  eagles’  plumes.  When  he  spreads  his  wings  for  flight,  the 
winds,  which  yet  no  mortal  can  discern,  fan  fire  into  flame,  or  lash 
the  waves  into  foam.  As  the  sons  of  Bor,  ‘powerful  and  fair,’ 
were  walking  along  the  sea-beach,  they  found  two  trees,  stately 
and  graceful,  and  from  them  created  the  first  human  pair,  man 
and  woman, — Ask  and  Embla: 

4 Odin  gave  spirit, 

Hoener  gave  mind, 

Loder  gave  blood 
And  lovely  hue.’ 

Nobler  conception  is  this,  than  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  of  clod  or 


COSMOGONY. 


25 

stone.  Diviner  symbol  is  this  of  the  trees,  Ash  and  Elm,  which, 
as  they  grow  heavenward,  show  an  unconscious  attraction  to  that 
which  is  heavenly. 

From  the  mould  of  Yiner  are  bred,  as  worms,  the  dwarfs, 
who  by  command  of  the  gods  receive  human  form  and  sense. 
Among  the  rocks,  in  the  wild  mountain-gorges  they  dwell. 
When  we  hear  the  echo  fi'om  wood  or  hill  or  dale,  there  stands  a 
dwarf  who  repeats  our  words.  They  had  charge  of  the  gold  and 
precious  minerals.  With  their  aprons  on,  they  hammered  and 
smelted,  and  — 

‘Rock  crystals  from  santl  and  hard  flint  they  made, 

Which,  tinged  with  the  rosebud's  dye, 

They  cast  into  rubies  and  carbuncles  red, 

And  hid  them  in  cracks  hard  by.’ 

In  the  summer’s  sun,  when  the  mist  hangs  over  the  sea,  may 
be  seen,  sitting  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  the  mermaid,  comb- 
ing her  long:  golden  hair  with  golden  comb,  or  driving  her  snow- 
white  cattle  to  the  strands.  No  household  prospers  without  its 
domestic  spirit.  Oft  the  favored  maid  finds  in  the  morning  that 
her  kitchen  is  swept  and  the  water  brought.  The  buried  treasure 
has  its  sleepless  dragon,  and  the  rivulet  its  water-sprite.  The 
Swede  delights  to  tell  of  the  boy  of  the  stream , who  haunts  the 
glassy  brooks  that  steal  through  meadows  green,  and  sits  on  the 
silver  waves  at  moonlight,  playing  his  harp  to  the  elves  who 
dance  on  the  flowery  margin. 

We  retain  in  the  days  of  the  week  a compendium  of  the  old 
English  creed.  A son  and  a daughter,  lovely  and  graceful,  are 
appointed  by  the  Powers  to  journey  round  heaven  each  day  with 
chariot  and  steeds,  ‘to  count  years  for  men,’  each  ever  pursued 
by  a ravenous  wolf.  The  girl  is  Sol,  the  Sun,  with  meteor  eyes 
and  burning  plumes;  the  boy  is  Maane,  the  Moon,  with  white 
fire  laden.  The  festival-days  consecrated  to  them  were  hence 
known  as  Sun’s-daeg  and  Moon’s-daeg,  whence  our  Sunday  and 
Monday.  Reversing  the  mythology  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans, 
the  Teutons  worshipped  the  sun  as  a female  and  the  moon  as  a 
male  deity,  from  an  odd  notion  that  if  the  latter  were  addressed 
as  a goddess  their  wives  would  be  their  masters.  The  memory  of 
Tyr,  the  dark,  dread,  daring,  and  intrepid  one,  is  embalmed  in 
Tuesday / his  grandmother  was  an  ugly  giantess  with  nine  hun- 
dred heads.  Wodin,  or  Odin,  survives  in  Wednesday.  He  does 


26 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


iiot  create  the  world,  but  arranges  and  governs  it.  He  is  the  all- 
pervading  spirit,  the  infinite  wanderer.  Two  wolves  lie  at  his 
feet;  and  on  his  shoulders  sit  two  gifted  ravens,  which  fly,  on  his 
behests,  to  the  uttermost  regions.  He  wakes  the  soul  to  thought, 
gives  science  and  lore,  inspires  the  song  of  the  bard  and  the  in- 
cantation of  the  sorcerer,  blunts  the  point  of  the  javelin,  renders 
his  warriors  invisible;  with  a hero’s  heart  and  voice,  tells  the 
brave  how  by  valor  a man  may  become  a god;  explains  to  mortals 
their  destiny  here, — makes  existence  articulate  and  melodious. 
Incarnated  as  a seer  and  magician  unknown  thousands  of  years 
ago,  he  led  the  Teutonic  throng  into  Scandinavia,  across  seas 
and  rivers  in  a wonderful  ship  built  by  dwarfs,  so  marvellously 
constructed  that,  when  they  wished  to  land,  it  could  be  taken 
to  pieces,  rolled  up,  and  put  in  the  pocket.  Our  Thursday  is 
Thor’s  day,  son  of  Odin.  He  is  a spring-god,  subduing  the  frost- 
giants.  The  thunder  is  his  wrath.  The  gathering  of  the  black 
clouds  is  the  drawing  down  of  his  angry  brows.  The  bursting  fire- 
bolt  is  the  all-rending  hammer  flung  from  his  hand.  The  peal, — 
that  is  the  roll  of  his  chariot  over  the  mountain-tops.  In  his 
mansion  are  five  hundred  and  forty  halls.  Freyja,  the  Venus  of 
the  North,  in  whom  are  beauty,  grace,  gentleness,  the  longings, 
joys,  and  tears  of  love,  is  incarnated  in  Friday.  Saeter,  an 
obscure  water-deity,  represented  as  standing  upon  a fish,  with  a 
bucket  in  his  hand,  is  commemorated  in  Saturday.  But  beyond 
all  the  gods  who  are  known  and  named,  there  is  the  feeling,  the 
instinct,  the  presentiment  of  One  who  is  unseen  and  imperishable, 
the  everlasting  Adamant  lower  than  which  the  confused  wreck  of 
revolutionary  things  cannot  fall: 

‘Then  comes  another 
Yet  more  mighty. 

But  Him  dare  I not 
Venture  to  name ; 

Few  look  further  forward 
Than  to  the  time 
z When  Odin  goes 

To  meet  the  wolf.’ 

Is  not  the  last  and  highest  consecration  of  all  true  religion  an 
altar  to  ‘The  Unknown  God?’ 

All  things  exist  in  antagonism.  No  sooner  are  the  giants  cre- 
ated than  the  contest  for  empire  begins.  When  Ymer  is  killed, 
the  crimson  flood  drowns  all  save  one,  who  with  his  wife  escapes 


BURIAL  CUSTOMS. 


27 


in  a chest,  and  so  continues  the  hated  race.  Huge,  shaggy, 
demoniac  beings.  Jotunheim  is  their  home,  distant,  dark,  chaotic. 
Long  fight  the  gods  against  them, — the  Fenriswolf,  whose  jaws 
they  rend  asunder;  the  great  serpent,  whom  they  drown  in  the 
sea;  the  evil  Loke,  whom  they  bind  to  the  rocks,  beneath  a viper 
whose  venom  drops  unceasingly  on  his  face. 

That  which  is  born  must  die.  Hel-gate  stands  ever  ajar  to 
receive  the  child  with  rosy  cheeks,  as  him  of  the  hoary  locks  and 
faltering  step.  When  a great  man  dies, — his  body,  with  his 
sword  in  his  hand,  his  helmet  on  his  head,  his  shield  by  his  side, 
and  his  horse  under  him,  is  burned.  The  ashes  are  collected  in 
an  earthen  vessel,  which  is  then  surrounded  with  huge  stones; 
and  over  this  is  heaped  the  memorial  mound.  Brynhild,  an 
untamed  maiden  in  an  epic  of  these  Northern  races,  sets  her  love 
upon  Sigurd;  but,  seeing  him  married,  she  causes  his  death, 
laughs  once,  puts  on  her  golden  corselet,  pierces  herself,  and 
makes  this  last  request: 

‘ Let  in  the  plain  he  raised  a pile  so  spacious,  that  for  us  all  like  room  may  be ; let  them 
burn  the  Hun  (Sigurd)  on  the  one  side  of  me,  on  the  other  side  my  household  slaves,  with 
'collars  splendid,  two  at  our  heads  and  two  hawks;  let  also  lie  between  us  both  the  keen- 
edged  sword;  . . . also  flve  female  thralls,  eight  male  slaves  of  gentle  birth  fostered  with 
me.’ 

Is  it  not  a beautiful  thought  that  the  dead  in  the  mounds  are  in 
a state  of  consciousness?  Out  of  the  depths  seems  to  come  the 
half-dumb  stifled  voice  of  the  long-buried  generations  of  our 
fathers,  the  echo  in  some  sort  of  our  own  painful,  fruitlessly 
inquiring  wonder: 

‘Now,  children,  lay  us  in  two  lofty  graves 
Down  by  the  sea  shore,  near  the  deep-blue  waves: 

Their  sounds  shall  to  our  souls  be  music  sweet, 

Singing  our  dirge  as  on  the  strand  they  beat. 

When  round  the  hills  the  pale  moonlight  is  thrown, 

And  Midnight  dews  fall  on  the  Bauta- stone, 

We'll  sit,  O Thorsten,  in  our  rounded  graves 
And  speak  together  o’er  the  gentle  waves.’ 

When  the  daughter  weeps  for  the  death  of  her  father,  she  allows 
-no  tear  to  fall  on  his  corpse,  lest  his  peace  be  troubled: 

‘Whenever  thou  grievest, 

My  coffin  is  within 
As  livid  blood; 

Whenever  thou  rejoicest, 

My  coffin  is  within 
Filled  with  fragrant  roses.’ 


28 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


Even  the  gods  must  perish.  Have  we  not  seen  that  the  germ  of 
decay  was  in  them  from  the  beginning?  They  and  their  enemies, 
met  in  a world-embracing  struggle,  mutually  destroy  each  other. 
Sun  and  stars,  rock-built  earth  and  crystal  vault,  sink  into  the 
bottomless,  many-sounding  sea. 

But  the  end  is  also  the  beginning.  There  comes  a new  day, 
and  a new  heaven  without  rent  or  seam, — that  is,  the  regenera- 
tion. There  is  no  loss  of  souls,  no  more  than  of  drops  when  the 
ocean  yields  its  vapor  to  the  touch  of  the  summer’s  sun.  Thought 
and  affection  are  immortal.  Death  is  but  a vanishing  from  one 
realm  into  another  — a triumph-hour  of  entrance  through  an  arch 
of  shadow  into  eternal  day.  Therefore,  fall  gloriously  in  battle,, 
and  you  shall  be  at  once  transported  to  Valhal,  the  airy  hall  of 
Odin,  upborne  by  spears,  roofed  with  shields,  and  adorned  with 
coats  of  mail.  Fighting  and  feasting,  which  have  been  your 
fierce  joys  on  earth,  shall  be  lavished  upon  you  in  this  supernal 
abode.  Every  day  you  shall  have  combats  in  the  listed  field, — 
the  rush  of  steeds,  the  flash  of  swords,  the  shining  of  lances,  and 
all  the  maddening  din  of  conflict;  helmets  and  bucklers  riven, 
horses  and  riders  overthrown,  ghastly  wounds  exchanged:  but  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun  you  shall  meet  unscathed,  victors  and  van- 
quished, around  the  festive  board,  to  partake  of  the  ample  ban- 
quet and  quaff  full  horns  of  beer  and  fragrant  mead.  Ragnar 
Lodbrok,  shipwrecked  on  the  English  coast,  is  taken  prisoner. 
Refusing  to  speak,  he  is  thrown  into  a dungeon  full  of  serpents, 
there  to  remain  until  he  tells  his  name.  The  reptiles  are  power- 
less. The  spectators  say  he  must  be  a brave  man  indeed  whom 
neither  arms  nor  vipers  can  hurt.  KingiElla,  hearing  this,  orders 
his  enchanted  garment  to  be  stripped  off,  and  soon  the  serpents 
cling  to  him  on  all  sides.  Then  Ragnar  says,  ‘How  the  young 
cubs  would  roar  if  they  knew  what  the  old  boar  suffers!’  But 
his  eye  is  fixed  upon  Valhal’s  ‘wide-flung  door,’  and  he  glories 
that  no  sigh  shall  disgrace  his  exit: 

‘ Cease  my  strain ! I hear  a voice  • 

From  realms  where  martial  souls  rejoice; 

I hear  the  maids1  of  slaughter  call, 

Who  bid  me  hence  to  Odin's  hall; 

High-seated  in  their  blest  abodes, 

I soon  shall  quaff  the  drink  of  gods. 

1 The  Valkyries,  Odin's  maids,  who  are  sent  out  to  choose  the  fallen  heroes,  and  to 
sway  the  combat. 


THEOLOGY. 


29 


The  hours  of  life  have  glided  by— 

I fall ! but  laughing  will  I die ! 

The  hours  of  life  have  glided  by — 

I fall ! but  laughing  will  I die ! ’ 

For  the  virtuous  who  do  not  die  in  hght  a more  peaceful  but  less 
glorious  Elysium  is  provided, — a resplendent  golden  palace,  sur- 
rounded by  verdant  meads  and  shady  groves  and  fields  of  sponta- 
neous fertility. 

After  all,  amid  the  raging  of  this  warlike  mood,  it  is  virtue,  on 
the  whole,  which  is  to  be  rewarded — vice  which  is  to  be  punished. 
Far  from  the  Sun,  ever  downward  and  northward,  is  the  cave  of 
the  giantess  Hel, — Naastrand,  the  strand  of  corpses.  Here  are  the 
palace  Anguish,  the  table  Famine,  the  waiters  Slowness  and 
Delay,  the  threshold  Precipice,  the  bed  Care.  Of  serpents 
wattled  together  the  cave  is  built,  their  heads  turning  inward  and 
filling  it  with  thick  venom-streams,  through  which  perjurers,  mur- 
derers, and  adulterers  have  to  wade: 

‘But  all  the  horrors 
You  cannot  know, 

That  Hel's  condemned  endure; 

Sweet  sins  there 
Bitterly  are  punished, 

False  pleasures 
Reap  true  pain.’ 

All  life  is  figured  as  a tree.  Ygdrasil,  the  Ash  of  existence, 
has  its  roots  deep  down  in  the  kingdom  of  Hel,  or  Death;  its 
trunk,  towering  heaven-high,  spreads  its  branches  over  the  uni- 
verse. ‘Stately,  with  white  dust  strewn:  thence  come  the  dews 
that  wet  the  dales;  it  stands  ever  green  over  Urd’s  fountain. ’ 
Under  its  root  that  stretches  into  the  frozen  North  is  Mimer’s 
well  of  wisdom.  On  its  topmost  bough  sits  an  eagle;  at  its  low- 
ermost base  is  the  serpent  Nidhug,  with  his  reptile  brood,  that 
pierce  it  with  their  fangs  and  devour  its  substance.  At  its  foot, 
in  the  Death-kingdom,  sit  three  Norns,  Fates,  who  water  its  roots 
from  the  Sacred  Well,  and  weave,  for  mortals  and  immortals,  the 
web  of  destiny.  What  similitude  so  true,  so  beautiful,  so  great  ? 

Here  is  philosophy  without  abstractions  or  syllogisms;  meta- 
physics that  overleaps  all  categories;  history  woven  of  giant- 
dreams;  poetry  whose  pictures  are  streams  that  flowT  together. 
What  ideas  are  at  the  bottom  of  this  chaos  of  untamed  imagin- 
ings? The  world  is  a warfare.  In  the  sad  inclement  North, 


30 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


amid  pathless  forests,  bridgeless  rivers,  treacherous  seas,  inhos- 
pitable shores,  the  strife  of  frost  and  fire,  man,  as  it  were  face  to 
face  with  a beast  of  prey,  feels  profoundly  that  life  is  a battle, 
and,  in  the  raging  of  his  own  moods,  sees  reflected  the  conflict  of 
chaotic  forces.  Thor’s  far-sounding  hammer,  Jove’s  falling  thun- 
derbolt, Indra’s  lightning-spear,  warring  against  the  demons  of 
the  storm,  till  the  light  triumphs  and  the  tempest  rolls  away,  but 
ever  returns  to  renew  the  combat, — what  are  they  but  types  of 
the  state  of  man,  cast  out  of  the  troubled  deep  upon  the  mists  of 
the  unknown  ? 

When  the  gods  were  unable  to  bind  the  Fenriswolf  with  steel 
'or  weight  of  mountains,  because  the  one  he  snaj:)ped  and  the  other 
ilie  spurned  with  his  heel,  they  put  round  his  foot  a limp  band 
softer  than  silk  or  gossamer,  and  this  held  him:  the  more  he 
struggled  the  stiffer  it  drew.  So  soft,  so  omnipotent  is  the  ring 
<of  Fate.  Balder,  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  gentle,  dies.  All 
nature  is  searched  for  a remedy;  but  he  is  dead.  His  mother 
sends  Hermod  to  seek  or  see  him,  who  rides  nine  days  and 
alights  through  a labyrinth  of  gloom.  Arrived  at  the  bridge  with 
its  gtolden  roof,  he  is  answered:  ‘Yes,  Balder  did  pass  here,  but 
the  Kingdom  of  the  Dead  is  down  yonder,  far  in  the  North.’ 
'.Speeds  the  messenger  on,  leaps  Hel-gate,  sees  Balder,  and  speaks 
-with  him;  but  Balder  cannot  be  delivered:  Fate  is  inexorable. 
The  Valkyries  are  choosers  of  the  fallen.  Belief  in  Destiny  is  a 
fundamental  point  for  this  wild  Teutonic  soul.  Perhaps  it  is  so 
for  all  instinctive  and  heroic  races,  as  for  all  earnest  men, — a 
Mahomet,  a Luther,  a Napoleon,  a Carlyle,  an  Emerson.  The 
Greek,  the  Turk,  the  Arab,  the  Persian,  accept  the  inevitable. 

*On  two  days  it  stands  not  to  run  from  thy  grave, 

The  appointed  and  the  unappointed  day; 

On  the  first,  neither  halm  nor  physicians  can  save, — 

Nor  thee,  on  the  second,  the  Universe  slay.’ 

Who  can  write  the  order  of  the  variable  winds?  On  every 
mortal  who  enters  the  hall  of  the  firmament  fall  snow-storms  of 
illusions,  though  the  gods  still  sit  on  their  thrones;  and  he  may 
see,  what  all  great  thinkers  have  seen: 

*We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of.’ 

In  heart-to-heart  communion  with  Nature,  these  old  Northmen 
seem  to  have  seen  what  meditation  has  taught  all  men  in  all  ages, 


PHILOSOPHY. 


31 


that  this  world  is  only  an  appearance,  a mirage , a shadow  hung 
by  the  primal  Reality  on  the  bosom  of  the  void  Infinite.  Thor, 
with  two  chosen  friends,  undertakes  an  expedition  to  Giant-land. 
Wandering  at  nightfall  in  a trackless  forest,  they  espy  a house, 
whose  door  is  the  whole  breadth  of  one  end.  Here  they  lodge; 
one  large  hall,  altogether  empty.  Suddenly,  at  dead  of  night, 
loud  noises  are  heard.  Thor  grasps  his  hammer,  and  stands  at 
the  door,  prepared  for  fight,  while  his  terrified  companions  take 
refuse  in  a little  closet.  In  the  morning:  it  turns  out  that  the 
noise  was  merely  the  snoring  of  the  giant  Skrymer,  who  lay  peace- 
ably sleeping  near  by;  that  the  house  was  only  his  mitten , 
thrown  carelessly  aside;  that  the  door  was  its  wrist , and  the 
closet  its  thumb.  Skrymer  now  joins  the  party  in  travel.  Thor, 
however,  suspicious  of  his  ways,  resolves  to  put  an  end  to  him  as 
he  slumbers  beneath  a large  oak.  Raising  his  hammer,  he  strikes 
.a  thunderbolt  blow  down  into  the  giant’s  face,  who  wakes,  rubs 
his  face,  and  murmurs:  4 Did  a leaf  fall?’  Thor  replies  that  they 
are  just  going  to  sleep,  and  goes  to  lie  down  under  another  oak. 
Again  he  strikes,  as  soon  as  Skrymer  again  sleeps,  a more  terrible 
blow  than  before;  but  the  giant  only  asks:  4 Did  an  acorn  fall? 
How  is  it  with  you,  Thor  ? ’ Thor,  going  hastily  away,  says  that 
he  has  prematurely  waked  up.  His  third  stroke,  delivered  with 
both  hands,  seems  to  dint  deep  into  the  giant’s  skull;  but  he 
simply  checks  his  snore,  strokes  his  chin,  and  inquires:  4Are  there 
sparrows  roosting  in  this  tree?  Was  it  moss  they  dropped?  It 
seems  to  me  time  to  arise  and  dress.’  At  Utgard-castle,  their 
journey’s  end,  they  are  invited  to  share  in  the  games  going  on. 
To  Thor,  they  hand  a drinking-horn,  explaining  that  it  is  a 
common  feat  to  drain  it  at  one  draught, — none  so  wretched  as 
not  to  exhaust  it  at  the  third.  Long  and  fiercely,  three  times 
over,  with  increasing  anger,  he  drinks;  then  finding  that  he  has 
made  hardly  any  impression,  gives  it  back  to  the  cup-bearer. 

4 Poor,  weak  child!’  they  say:  ‘Can  you  lift  this  gray  cat?  Our 
young  men  think  it  nothing  but  play.’  Thor,  with  his  whole  god- 
like strength,  can  at  the  utmost  bend  the  creature’s  back  and  lift 
one  foot.  4 Just  as  we  expected,’  say  the  Utgard  people.  4 The  cat 
is  large,  but  you  are  little.’  4 Little  as  you  call  me,’  says  Thor,  4 1 
challenge  any  one  to  wrestle  with  me,  for  now  I am  angry.’  4 Why 
here  is  a toothless  old  woman  who  will  wrestle  you!  ’ Heartily 


32 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


ashamed,  Thor  seizes  her  — and  is  worsted.  On  their  departure, 
the  host  escorts  them  politely  a little  way,  and  says  to  Thor:  ‘Be 
not  so  mortified;  you  have  been  deceived.  That  race  you  wit- 
nessed was  a race  with  Thought.  That  horn  had  one  end  in  the 
Ocean:  you  did  diminish  it,  as  you  will  see  when  you  come  to 
the  shore;  this  is  the  ebb.  But  who  can  drink  the  fathomless? 
And  the  cat, — ah!  we  were  terror-stricken  when  we  saw  one  paw 
off  the  floor;  for  that  is  the  Midgard-serpent,  which,  tail  in 
mouth,  girds  and  keeps  up  the  created  world.  As  for  the  hag, — 
why,  she  was  Time / and  who,  of  men  or  gods,  can  prevail  over 
her?  Then,  too,  look  at  these  three  glens , — by  the  timely  inter- 
position of  a mountain,  your  strokes  made  these!  Adieu,  and  a 
word  of  advice, — better  come  no  more  to  Jotunheim!’  Grim 
humor  this,  overlying  a sublime,  uncomplaining  melancholy, — 
mirth  resting  upon  sadness,  as  the  rainbow  upon  the  tempest. 
To  this  day  it  runs  in  the  blood. 

Therefore,  the  one  thing  needful,  the  everlasting  duty,  is  to 
be  brave.  The  right  use  of  Fate  is  to  bring  our  conduct  up  to 
the  loftiness  of  nature.  Let  a man  have  not  less  the  flow  of  the 
river,  the  expansion  of  the  oak,  the  steadfastness  of  the  hills. 
Heroism  is  the  highest  good.  Over  you,  at  each  moment,  hangs 
a threatening  sword,  which  may  in  the  next  prove  fatal.  Life  in 
itself  has  no  value,  and  its  ideal  termination,  to  be  kept  con- 
stantly in  view,  is  to  fall  heroically  in  fight.  The  Choosers  will 
lead  you  to  the  II all  of  Odin , only  the  base  and  slavish  being 
thrust  elsewhither: 

‘The  coward  thinks  to  live  forever. 

If  he  avoid  the  weapon’s  reach; 

But  Age,  which  overtakes  at  last, 

Twines  his  gray  hair  with  pain  and  shame.’ 

Hold  to  your  purpose  with  the  tug  of  gravitation,  believing  that 
you  can  shun  no  danger  that  is  appointed  nor  incur  one  that  is 
not.  Thus  did  these  old  Northmen.  Silent  and  indomitable, — 

‘In  the  prow  with  head  uplifted 
Stood  the  chief  like  wrathful  Thor: 

Through  his  locks  the  snow-flakes  drifted, 

Bleached  their  hue  from  gold  to  hoar; 

Mid  the  crash  of  mast  and  rafter 
Norsemen  leaped  through  death  with  laughter, 

Up  through  Valhal’s  wide-flung  door.’ 


SAVAGERY. 


33 


Old  kings,  about  to  die,  had  their  bodies  laid  in  a ship,  the  ship 
sent  forth  with  sails  set,  and  a slow  fire  burning*  it;  that  they 
might  be  buried  at  once  in  the  sky  and  in  the  sea! 

Wild  and  bloody  was  this  valor  of  the  Northmen.  True,  but 
they  were  ferocious  — bloody-minded.  Murder  was  their  trade, 
and  hence  their  pleasure.  ‘Lord,  deliver  us  from  the  fury  of  the 
Jutes,’  says  an  ancient  litany.  The  ceremonials  of  religion 
assumed  a cruel  and  sanguinary  character.  Prisoners  taken  in 
battle  were  sacrificed  by  the  victors,  sometimes  subjects  by  their 
kings,  and  even  children  by  their  parents.  Bodies  white  and 
huge,  stomachs  ravenous.  Six  meals  a day  barely  sufficed.  The 
heroes  of  Valhal  gorge  themselves  upon  the  flesh  of  a boar 
which  is  cooked  every  morning,  but  becomes  whole  again  every 
night.  Lovers  of  gambling  and  strong  drink.  Seated  on  their 
stools,  by  the  light  of  the  torch,  they  listened  to  battle-songs  and 
heroic  legends  as  they  drank  their  ale,  while  ‘the  lordly  hall 
thundered,  and  the  ale  was  spilled.’  In  Paradise,  the  elect  drink 
from  a river  of  ale!  ‘Disputes,’  says  Tacitus,  ‘as  will  be  the  case 
with  people  in  liquor,  frequently  arise,  and  are  seldom  confined 
to  opprobrious  epithets.  The  quarrel  generally  ends  in  a scene 
of  blood.’  Here  are  the  germs  of  nineteenth-century  vices.  In- 
trepid in  war,  in  peace  they  lie  by  the  fireside,  sluggish  and  dirty, 
eating  and  drinking. 

Established  in  England,  they  have  brought  with  them  their 
customs,  sentiments,  and  habits.  They  are  still  gluttonous,  un- 
tamed, butcherly.  To  dance  among  naked  swords  is  their  recre- 
ation. To  drink  is  their  necessity.  Later  on,  they  quarrel  about 
the  amount  each  shall  drink  from  the  common  cup,  and  the 
Archbishop  puts  pegs  in  the  vessel,  that  each  thirsty  soul  shall 
take  no  more  than  his  just  proportion. 

Every  man  is  obliged  to  appear  ready-armed,  to  repel  preda- 
tory bands.  A hundred  years  measure  the  reign  of  fourteen 
kings,  seven  of  whom  are  slain  and  six  deposed.  King  Holla’s 
ribs  are  divided  from  his  spine,  his  lungs  drawn  out,  and  salt 
thrown  into  his  wounds.  Attendants  who  are  preparing  a royal 
banquet  are  seized,  their  heads  and  limbs  severed,  placed  in  ves- 
sels of  wine,  mead,  ale,  and  cider,  with  a message  to  the  king: 
‘ If  you  go  to  your  farm,  you  will  find  there  plenty  of  salt  meat, 
but  you  will  do  well  to  carry  more  with  you.’ 

3 


34 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


They  have  made  one  remove  from  barbarism.  Once  murder 
was  expiated,  as  all  other  crimes,  by  blows  (from  five  to  a thou- 
sand), the  gift  of  a female  to  the  offended  party,  or  a fine  of  gold; 
now,  by  money-fines  only.  Here,  by  implication,  in  the  Saxon 
Code  of  laws,  is  the  social  status  of  the  sixth  century.  Mark 
with  what  minutiae  it  seeks  to  repress  the  irruptive  tendencies 
of  a restive  and  disordered  society: 

‘These  are  the  Laws  King  Ethelbert  established  in  Agustine's  day: 

2.  If  the  king  his  people  to  him  call,  and  any  one  to  them  harm  does,  two  fines  shall 
be  paid,  and  to  the  king  50  shillings. 

8.  If  in  the  king's  town  any  one  a man  slay,  50  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

13.  If  any  one  in  an  earl's  town  a man  kills,  12  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

19.  If  a highway  robbery  be  committed,  6 shillings  shall  be  paid. 

35.  If  bones  bare  become,  3 shillings  shall  be  paid. 

36.  If  bones  bitten  are,  4 shillings  shall  be  paid. 

39.  If  an  ear  be  cut  off,  12  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

44.  If  an  eye  be  gouged  out,  50  shillings  shall  be  paid. 

55.  For  every  nail,  1 shilling. 

57.  If  a man  beat  another  with  the  fist  on  the  nose,  3 shillings. 

64.  If  a thigh  be  broken,  12  shillings  shall  be  paid ; if  he  halt  become,  then  shall  be- 
summoned  friends  who  arbitrate. 

65.  If  a rib  broken  be,  3 shillings  shall  be  paid. 

68.  If  a foot  be  cut  off,  50  shillings  shall  compensate. 

69.  If  the  large  toe  be  cut  off,  10  shillings  shall  compensate. 

70.  For  every  other  toe,  half  the  sum  as  has  been  said  for  the  fingers. 

81.  If  any  one  take  a maiden  by  force,  he  shall  pay  the  owner  50  shillings;  and 
afterwards  buy  her  according  to  the  owner’s  will.’ 

Formerly,  too,  they  slew  themselves,  dying  as  they  had  lived — in 
blood.  Now,  in  the  eleventh  century,  an  earl,  about  to  die  of  dis- 
ease but  unable  wholly  to  repress  the  ferocious  instinct,  exclaims: 

‘ What  a shame  for  me  not  to  have  been  permitted  to  die  in  so  many  battles,  and  to  end 
thus  by  a cow’s  death.  At  least  put  on  my  breast-plate,  gird  on  my  sword,  set  my  helmet 
on  my  head,  my  shield  in  my  left  hand,  my  battle-axe  in  my  right,  so  that  a stout  warrior 
like  myself  may  die  as  a warrior.’ 

But  in  this  human  animal  — let  it  not  be  forgotten  — abide 
noble  dispositions,  which  will  wax  nobler  as  he  climbs  the  heights- 
of  purer  vision.  In  manners,  severe;  in  inclinations,  grave; 
valorous  and  liberty-loving.  If  he  is  cruel,  he  refuses  to  bo 
shackled.  In  his  own  home,  he  is  his  own  master.  No  Feudal- 
ism yet- — only  a voluntary  subordination  to  a leader.  Required 
to  associate  himself  with  a superior,  he  chooses  him  as  a friend,, 
and  follows  him  to  the  death.  ‘He  is  infamous  as  long  as  he 
lives,  who  returns  from  the  field  of  battle  without  his  chief.’ 

Amid  the  savagery  of  barbarian  life,  he  feels  no  sentiment 
stronger  than  friendship.  An  exile,  waking  from  his  dream  of 


HOME-LIFE. 


35 


* In  blithe  habits  full  oft  we,  too,  agreed  that  naught  else  should  divide  us  except  death 
alone ; at  length  this  is  changed,  and,  as  if  it  had  never  been,  is  now  our  friendship.  To 
endure  enmities  man  orders  me  to  dwell  in  the  bowers  of  the  forest,  under  the  oak  tree  in 
this  earthly  cave.  Cold  is  this  earth-dwelling;  I am  quite  wearied  out.  Dim  are  the  dells, 
high  up  are  the  mountains,  a bitter  city  of  twigs,  with  briars  overgrown,  a joyless  abode. 
. . . My  friends  are  in  the  earth;  those  loved  in  life, — the  tomb  holds  them.  The  grave  is 
guarding,  while  I above  alone  am  going.  Under  the  oak-tree,  beyond  this  earth-cave, — 
there  I must  sit  the  long  summer  day.’ 

He  is  over-brave.  He  places  his  happiness  in  battle  and  his 
beauty  in  death.  The  coward  is  drowned  in  the  mud  under  a 
hurdle,  or  is  immolated. 

The  true  home-life,  out  of  which  are  the  issues  of  national 
life,  is  foreshadowed  by  the  respect  with  which  woman  is  treated. 
She  inherits  property  and  bequeaths  it;  associates  with  the  men 
at  their  feasts,  and  is  respected.  The  law  surrounds  her  with 
guarantees,  and  accords  her  protection.  The  freeman  who  presses- 
the  finger  of  a freewoman,  is  liable  to  a fine  of  six  hundred 
pence;  of  twelve  hundred,  if  he  touches  the  arm.  ‘Almost  alone 
among  the  barbarians,’  says  Tacitus,  ‘they  are  content  with  one 
wife’;  then,  perhaps  with  a bitter  thought  of  Rome,  ‘No  one  in 
Germany  laughs  at  vice,  nor  do  they  call  it  the  fashion  to  corrupt 
and  be  corrupted.’  A chivalric  sense  of  delicacy,  indeed,  we  may 
not  expect.  She  attends  to  the  indoor  and  outdoor  work,  while 
her  husband  dozes  in  a half  stupor  by  the  fire.  His  companion 
in  war,  she  is  his  drudge  in  peace.  As  little  may  we  look  for  the 
finer  instincts  of  the  womanly  nature.  Brynhild  compels  her 
suitors  to  contend  with  her  in  the  games  of  spear-throwing, 
leaping,  and  stone-hurling,  under  penalty  of  death  in  case  of 
defeat.  Atle’s  wife  kills  her  children,  and  one  day,  on  his  return 
from  the  carnage,  gives  him  their  hearts  to  eat,  served  in  honey, 
and  laughs  as  she  tells  him  on  what  he  has  fed.  Devotion  there 
is,  stronger  than  life  or  death,  and  grief  too  deep  for  tears.  With 
a fierce  kind  of  joy,  the  maid  expires  on  the  grave  of  her  lover. 
Balder’s  wife  accompanies  him  to  the  Death-kingdom;  and  while 
he  sends  his  ring  to  Odin,  she  sends  as  final  remembrance  her 
thimble  to  Freyja.  Loke’s  wife  stands  by  his  side,  and  receives 
the  venom-drops,  as  they  fall,  in  a cup  which  she  empties  as  often 
as  it  is  filled. 

The  Celt  is  gay,  emotional,  easily  elevated  and  as  easily 
depressed.  He  knows  not  how  to  plod,  would  leap  to  results, 
has  a passion  for  color  and  form.  The  Teuton  is  steady,  is  not 


36 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  PEOPLE. 


dazzled  by  show,  looks  more  to  the  inner  fact  of  things.  It 
inspires  the  one  to  be  addressed  in  the  words  of  Napoleon, — 
* Soldiers,  from  the  summits  of  yonder  Pyramids,  forty  ages 
behold  you;’1  it  nerves  the  other  to  be  told  in  the  severe  phrase 
of  Nelson, — ‘ England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty.’  What 
sentiment  is  to  the  one,  interest  is  to  the  other. 

If,  again,  the  Teuton  has  less  of  brilliancy  than  the  Norman, 
he  has  more  of  patient  strength.  If  he  is  less  passionate,  he  is 
more  reflective.  If  he  is  less  voluble,  he  has  the  deep  conviction 
and  the  indomitable  will  that  have  preserved  his  continuity 
through  all  revolutionary  changes,  and  made  him  the  most  irre- 
sistible force  in  European  politics.  If  he  is  less  the  artist  of  the 
beautiful,  he  is  more  inclined  to  the  serious  and  sublime.  Did 
ever  any  people  form  so  tragic  a conception  of  life,  get  so  free 
and  direct  a glance  into  the  deeps  of  thought,  or  banish  so  com- 
pletely from  its  dreams  the  sweetness  of  enjoyment  and  the  soft- 
ness of  pleasure?  Here  is  the  shadow,  of  which  the  Christian 
ideal  is  the  substance. 

Do  but  consider  the  singular  adaptation  of  this  soil  for  the 
reception  of  the  new  faith.  Back  in  the  days  of  heathendom 
we  may  find  the  first  suggestion  of  the  spirit  which  led  to  the 
Reformation  of  an  after  age  — the  revolt  against  the  sensuous 
worship  of  Rome  — when  Tacitus  says  of  the  old  Germanic  tribes 
that  they  do  not  consider  it  consistent  with  the  grandeur  of 
celestial  beings  to  confine  the  gods  within  walls,  or  to  liken  them 
to  the  form  of  any  human  countenance.  They  consecrate  woods 
and  groves,  and  they  apply  the  names  of  deities  to  the  abstrac- 
tion which  they  see  only  with  the  spiritual  eye.  This  feeling  of 
a mysterious  infinity,  of  the  dark  Beyond,  this  sincerity  of  per- 
sonal and  original  sentiment,  predisposes  the  mind  to  Christian- 
ity; it  makes  the  supreme  distinction  between  races,  as  between 
great  souls  and  little  souls.  Gregory  had  seen  slaves  in  the 
market  at  Rome,  and  their  faces  were  beautiful.  He  was  told 
they  were  heathen  boys  from  the  Isle  of  Britain.  Sorry  to  think 
that  forms  so  fair  should  have  no  light  within,  he  asked  what  was 
the  name  of  their  nation.  ‘ Angles ,’  he  was  told.  ‘Angles!'  said 
Gregory;  ‘they  have  the  faces  of  A.ngels , and  they  ought  to  be 
made  fellow-heirs  of  the  Angels  in  Heaven.  But  of  what  prov- 


1 The  Celt  is  the  spiritual  progenitor  of  the  Frenchman. 


FUNDAMENTAL  INSTINCTS. 


37 


ince  are  they?’  lDeiraJ  said  the  merchant.  ‘De  ira ! ’ said 
Gregory;  ‘then  they  must  be  delivered  from  the  wrath’ — in 
Latin  de  ira — ‘of  God.’  ‘And  what  is  the  name  of  their  king?’ 
LElla.’  ‘ JElla ! then  Alleluia  shall  be  sung  in  his  land.’  Pres- 
ently Roman  missionaries  bearing  a silver  cross  with  an  image  of 
Christ  came  in  procession  chanting  a litany.  In  the  council  of 
the  king,  the  High-Priest  of  Odin  declared  that  the  old  gods 
were  powerless: 

‘ For  there  is  no  man  in  thy  land,  O King,  who  hath  served  all  our  gods  more  truly  than 
I,  yet  there  be  many  who  are  richer  and  greater,  and  to  whom  thou  showest  more  favor; 
whereas,  if  our  gods  were  good  for  anything,  they  would  rather  forewarn  me  who  have  been 
so  zealous  to  serve  them.  Wherefore  let  us  hearken  to  what  these  men  say,  and  learn  what 
their  law  is;  and  if  we  find  it  to  be  better  than  our  own,  let  us  serve  their  God  and  worship 
Him.’ 

This  is  the  profit-and-loss  estimate  — not  yet  extinct  among  us  — 
of  thing's  divine,  contracting  the  horizon  of  life  within  the  narrow 
circle  of  material  interests.  But  in  that  assembly  of  wise  men 
was  another,  of  finer  mould,  whose  eyes,  lifted  from  the  dust, 
■could  see  the  stars.  Then  a chief  rose  and  said: 

‘ You  remember,  it  may  be,  O King,  that  which  sometimes  happens  in  winter  when  you 
are  seated  at  table  with  your  earls  and  thanes.  Your  fire  is  lighted,  and  your  hall  warmed, 
and  without  is  rain,  snow,  and  storm.  Then  comes  a swallow  flying  across  the  hall : he 
enters  by  one  door  and  leaves  by  another.  The  brief  moment  while  he  is  within  is  pleasant 
to  him:  he  feels  not  rain  nor  cheerless  winter  weather;  but  the  moment  is  brief,— the  bird 
flies  away  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  and  lie  passes  from  winter  to  winter.  Such,  me- 
thinks,  is  the  life  of  man  on  earth,  compared  with  the  uncertain  time  beyond.  It  appears 
for  a while;  but  what  is  the  time  which  comes  after  — the  time  which  was  before?  We 
know  not.  If  then,  this  new  doctrine  may  teach  us  somewhat  of  greater  certainty  — 
whence  man  cometh  and  whither  he  goeth  — it  were  well  that  we  should  regard  it.’ 1 

Henceforth  the  war-gods  are  blotted  out,  the  passions  which 
created  them  wane;  manly  and  moral  instincts  increase;  new 
ideas  take  root;  and  a literature  begins  whose  inspiration  and 
soul,  even  to  the  latest  generation,  while  it  images  the  mingled 
and  many-colored  web  of  mortal  experience,  are  essentially  the 
God-idea  — this  longing  after  an  Infinite  which  sense  cannot 
touch,  but  reverence  alone  can  feel  — this  wonder  and  sorrow 
concerning  life  and  death  which  are  the  inheritance  of  the  Saxon 
soul  from  the  days  of  its  first  sea-kings. 

1 ‘In  this  year  (597), 1 says  the  Chronicle,  ‘ Gregorius  the  Pope  sent  into  Britain  Augus- 
tinus with  very  many  monks  who  gospelled  God’s  word  to  the  English  folk.’  That  is,  they 
‘preached’  or  ‘taught,’  the  Gospel—  the  good  spell  or  tale,  the  good  neivs  of  what  God  had 
done  for  others  and  would  do  for  them. 

Though  the  Christian  faith  had  not  failed  among  the  Britons  of  Wales,  the  British 
priests  were  not  likely  to  try  to  convert  their  mortal  enemies,  the  Anglo-Saxons,  nor  were 
the  latter  likely  to  listen  to  them.  The  Scots  (Irish)  helped  much  in  the  good  work  after- 
wards, but  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  in  the  beginning. 


38 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD — THE  PEOPLE. 


Results. — The  English  people,  it  is  thus  seen,  is  a composite 
nation,  uniting  in  its  children  the  elements  which,  separately,  in 
the  intellectual  development  of  Europe*  have  shown  themselves 
most  efficient  in  all  great  and  worthy  achievements.  But  of  this 
British,  Roman,  Saxon,  Danish,  Norman  blood,  in  fulfilment  of 
the  decrees  of  an  overruling  Providence,  is  formed  the  English 
nation  — a nation  that  has  preserved  its  free  spirit  under  foreign 
domination  and  domestic  oppression  — a nation  that  has  upheld, 
with  ever  increasing  strength,  the  principle  that  power  is  derived 
from  the  governed  for  the  general  good  — a nation  that  in  litera- 
ture and  life  has  furnished  the  moral  pioneers  and  teachers  of  the 
world.  Its  body,  its  substance,  is  Saxon,  which  receives  first  the 
Celt,  with  his  bold  imagination  and  self-sacrificing  zeal;  then  the 
Dane,  with  his  tacit  rage  and  adventurous  maritime  spirit;  then 
the  Norman,  with  his  flexible  genius,  his  trickery,  his  subtlety, 
his  drawing-room  polish,  and  his  keen  sense  of  enjoyment.  Herein 
consists  its  true  greatness,  which  comes  of  no  transfusion, — its 
energetic  sense  of  truth,  its  assertion  of  the  right  of  individual 
liberty,  its  resolute  habit  of  looking  to  the  end,  its  deep  power  of 
love  and  its  grand  power  of  will. 

We  may  therefore  expect  from  this  blending  of  diverse  parts  a 
many-sided  intellectual  progress  and  a wide  variety  of  individual 
character, — the  multifariousness  of  Shakespeare,  the  austerity  of 
Milton,  the  materialism  of  Spencer,  the  transcendentalism  of 
Emerson,  the  grace  of  Addison,  the  solidity  of  Johnson,  th& 
oddity  of  Swift,  the  sadness  and  madness  of  Byron. 


CHAPTER  II. 


FORMING  OF  THE  LANGUAGE. 


Words  are  the  sounds  of  the  heart. — Chinese  Proverb. 
Words  are  the  only  things  that  live  forever.—  Hazlitt. 


Definition. — Speech  is  the  utterance  of  sounds  which  usage 
has  made  the  representatives  of  ideas.  When,  in  any  community, 
the  same  sounds  are  customarily  associated  with  the  same  ideas, 
the  expression  of  these  sounds  by  the  speaker  renders  his  ideas 
intelligible  to  the  hearer. 

Man  possesses  in  the  organs  of  utterance  — though  he  seldom 
thinks  of  it,  or  forgets  the  blessing  because  it  is  given  — a mu- 
sical instrument  which  is  at  once  a harp,  an  organ,  and  a flute; 
an  instrument  on  which  Nature  gives  him  the  mastery  of  a fin- 
ished performer.  Hoiq  its  notes  are  struck,  so  as  to  express  in 
coordination  the  many-colored  world  without  and  the  shadow- 
world  within,  is  the  mystery  of  language.  This,  however,  is  the 
observed  phenomenon:  a person  having  a thought,  and  wishing 
to  awaken  a corresponding  thought  in  the  mind  of  another, 
emits,  at  stated  intervals,  a portion  of  his  breath,  modified  by 
certain  movements  of  the  vocal  organs;  these  movements  are 
transmitted  to  the  atmosphere,  and  thence  to  the  ear  of  the  lis- 
tener, producing  there  vibrations  identical  with  the  original; 
then,  through  the  agency  of  instinct,  memory,  and  invention,  the 
two  have  the  same  thought.  A result  reached  without  any  con- 
scious effort,  and  therefore  seemingly  simple  and  commonplace, 
yet  seen,  on  reflection,  to  be  truly  wonderful.  Short  as  is  the 
reach  of  its  pulse,  vanishing  as  are  its  undulations,  by  that  fluid 
air,  articulated  into  living  words,  man  graves  on  the  rock  or  prints 
in  the  book  the  records  of  his  outward  history  and  his  inner  soul, 
in  symbols  more  enduring  than  Babylonian  palace  or  Egyptian 
pyramid. 

Origin. — Whether  man  was  the  special  creation  of  God  or 
was  developed  from  inarticulate  creatures,  it  would  seem  evident 

39 


40 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


that  speech,  in  its  inception , like  the  bark  of  a dog,  is  a natural 
product,  and  hence  originates  in  the  instinct  divinely  implanted, 
directly,  or  indirectly,  in  man’s  nature  to  communicate  thought.1 
The  Providence  that  provided  soil,  fuel,  minerals,  and  vegetables, 
to  meet  his  physical  needs,  and  religion  to  meet  his  spiritual 
demands,  would,  it  is  reasonable  to  expect,  furnish  at  the  outset 
suitable  means  of  communication. 

We  must  suppose,  however,  that  what  is  known  to  be  true  in 
other  directions  of  his  development  will  be  found  to  be  true  in 
this, — an  imperfect  beginning  and  a gradual  ascent.  Clothing 
began  with  leaves  and  bark,  with  skins  of  wild  animals  and  the 
like;  shelter  was  first  a hole  in  the  ground,  or  the  hollow  of  a 
tree;  tools  were  first  of  bone,  wood,  or  stone:  but  in  time  the 
sheltering  cave  became  a nest  of  interwoven  branches,  this,  in 
many  ages,  a log  hut,  and  this,  by  improvement  in  shape,  mate- 
rial, and  size,  after  centuries  of  toil,  a stately  palace;  in  long 
ages  of  cultivation,  dress-making  and  tool-making  became  arts, 
each  giving  us  forms  of  elegance  and  beauty.  When  first  the 
infant  is  moved  to  express  itself  to  others,  it  does  so  by  motions 
or  natural  cries,  then  by  simple  words  of  one  syllable — very  few 
in  number,  for  its  ideas  are  few  — progressing  slowly  in  its 
powers  of  utterance,  yet  increasing  its  vocabulary  as  intelligence 
expands. 

So,  by  analogy,  was  it  with  man.  His  beginning  was  less  a 
song  or  a poem  than  a cry  or  gesture.  His  first  words,  like  those 
of  the  child,  were  probably  monosyllables,  and,  like  those  of  the 
child  or  savage,  referred  mainly  to  his  bodily  wants  and  to  sur- 
rounding objects  which  impressed  him  strongly. 

The  origin  of  speech  — so  mysterious  is  the  power  — excited 
some  speculation  even  among  the  rude  primeval  races.  The 
Esthonians  tell  that  the  Aged  One,  as  they  call  the  Deity,  placed 
on  the  fire  a kettle  of  water,  from  the  hissing  and  bubbling  of 
which  the  various  nations  learned  their  languages;  that  is,  by 
imitating  these  vague  sounds,  they  modulated  them  into  intelligi- 
ble utterances.  The  Australians  explain  the  gift  of  speech  by 
saying  that  people  had  eaten  an  old  woman,  named  Wururi,  who 

1 Man  is  not  less  divine,  nor  his  speech  less  God-given,  on  the  supposition  that  he  has 
been  evolved  from  lower  organisms:  for  still  an  adequate  Cause  — a Supreme  Intelli- 
gence— must  have  impressed  such  attributes  upon  primordial  matter  as  to  make  such 
evolution  possible. 


ORIGIN  AND  GROWTH. 


41 


went  about  at  night  quenching  fires  with  a damp  stick.  Wiiruri 
is  supposed  to  mean  the  damp  night-wind,  and  the  languages 
learned  from  devouring  her  are  the  guttural,  or  wind-like,  repro- 
duction of  natural  sounds  made  by  the  material  objects  around 
them.  There  is  the  beautiful  legend  that  Wannemunume,  the 
god  of  song,  descended  into  a sacred  wood,  and  there  played  and 
sang.  T^ie  birds  learned  the  prelude  of  the  song;  the  listening* 
trees,  their  rustle;  the  streams,  their  ripple  and  roar;  and  the 
winds,  their  shrill  tones  and  desolate  moans:  but  the  fish  remained 
dumb,  because,  though  they  protruded  their  heads,  as  far  as  the 
eyes,  out  of  the  water,  their  ears  continued  under  water,  and  they 
could  only  imitate  the  motion  of  the  god’s  mouth.  Man  alone 
grasped  it  all,  and  so  his  song  pierces  down  into  the  depths  of 
the  heart  and  up  into  the  home  of  the  gods. 

Development. — Two  principles  have  been  especially  active 
in  the  growth  of  speech:  • 

1.  Onomatopoeia , or  sound-imitation . — Thus  the  cry  of  a cat 
to  children  of  different  nationalities  is  e-yow / the  watch  is  tick- 
tick.  Thus,  also,  the  interjection  ah  or  ach  gives  the  root  aka 
(Sanskrit),  acam  (Anglo-Saxon),  and  thence  our  ache / whence 
also  anxious , anguish , and  agony.  The  root  mur  in  murmur , 
implying  the  rush  of  water-drops,  gives  myriad.  The  Australian, 
imitating  the  noise  it  makes,  calls  the  frog  kong-kung . The 
North  American  Indian,  repeating  the  hooting  of  the  bird,  calls 
the  owl  kos-kos-koo-oo,  a verbal  sign  which  immediately  suggests 
to  all  who  have  heard  it,  the  thing  signified.  Several  tribes  on 
the  coast  of  New  Guinea  give  names  to  their  children  in  imitation 
of  the  first  sound  the  child  utters.  Familiar  instances  of  invent- 
ing names  by  imitating  natural  sounds,  are  whip-poor-will,  pee- 
wee,  bob-iohite,  buzz,  whiz,  hiss,  snap,  snarl,  bang,  roar.  There 
is  the  story  of  the  Englishman  who,  wanting  to  know  the  nature 
of  the  meat  on  his  plate  at  a Chinese  entertainment,  turned  to 
the  native  servant  behind  him,  and,  pointing  to  the  dish,  inquired, 
‘Quack,  quack?''  The  Chinaman  replied,  ‘Bow-wow?  Thus  the 
two  were  mutually  intelligible,  though  they  understood  not  a 
word  of  each  other’s  language. 

2.  Metaphor,  or  the  use  of  words  in  new  applications. — 
When  a strange  object  is  seen,  men  are  not  satisfied  till  they 
have  heard  its  name.  If  it  has  none,  as  would  happen  in  the 


42 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


first  settlement  of  a country,  they  proceed  to  give  it  one;  and  in 
doing  so,  the  prevailing  tendency,  as  has  been  observed  from  the 
earliest  times,  is  to  use  the  name  of  some  known  object  nearly 
resembling  the  one  to  be  named.  To  combine  and  reapply  old 
names  is  easier  than  to  invent  new  ones;  and,  wherever  this  is 
done,  the  result  is  a metaphor.  Thus  the  French,  on  the  first 
introduction  of  the  potato,  called  it,  ‘the  apple  of  the  earth.’ 
Captain  Erskine  relates  that  in  the  Fiji  Islands,  man,  dressed  and 
prepared  for  food,  is  known  as  ‘long  pig’;  human  flesh  and  pork 
being  the  two  staple  articles  of  food,  and  the  natural  pig  being 
the  shorter.  The  New  Zealanders  called  their  first  horses  ‘large 
dogs’;  and  the  Highlanders  styled  their  first  donkey  a ‘large 
hare.’  The  Kaffirs  called  the  parasol  ‘a  cloud,’  transferring  to 
the  new  object  a name  belonging  to  one  which  resembled  it 
somewhat  in  figure  and  effect.  Among  the  Malays,  the  sun  is 
maUi-ari , literally,  ‘the  eye  of  day’;  the  ankle  is  mata-kaki , 
‘the  eye  of  the  foot’;  and  the  key  is  ‘child  of  the  lock.’ 

These  transfers,  it  is  seen,  are  made  between  one  material 
substance  and  another;  but  frequently  they  are  made  between 
matter  and  spirit.  Man’s  earliest  words,  like  the  child’s,  related, 
not  to  his  soul,  but  to  his  body  and  material  objects.  As  he 
advanced  to  consider  and  explain  thinking,  feeling,  and  willing, 
his  own  yearnings  and  passions,  he  could  neither  understand 
them  himself  nor  make  them  intelligible  to  others,  except  by 
reference  to  things  which  he  could  see,  hear,  taste,  smell,  or 
touch, — that  is,  by  the  use  of  old  terms  in  a new  sense.  The 
ideal,  the  spiritual,  the  mental,  is,  of  itself,  dim,  shadowy,  and 
unseen,  and  is  incapable  of  being  known  at  all  but  by  a material 
image  that  shall  make  it  in  some  sort  visible,  as  a diagram  illus- 
trates a truth  in  geometry.  Thus  our  ‘soul’ — German  seele  — is 
derived  from  the  same  root  as  the  word  ‘sea.’  The  word  ‘reason’ 
is  supposed  to  be  connected  with  the  Greek  rheo , ‘I  flow.’ 
‘Consider,’  from  the  Latin  considerare,  means  ‘to  fix  the  eyes  on 
the  stars’;  ‘deliberate,’  from  deliberare,  ‘to  weigh.’  The  Greek 
for  the  soul  of  man  means  ‘wind,’  and  the  Hebrew  ‘breath.’ 

Some  of  the  metaphors  in  use  among  savages  are  highly 
picturesque.  The  Malays  signify  affront  by  ‘charcoal  on  the 
face’;  malice  by  ‘rust  of  the  heart’;  impudence  by  ‘face  of 
board’;  sincerity  by  ‘white  heart.’  Scarcely  less  ingenious  are 


ORIGIN  AND  GROWTH. 


43 


the  metaphors  in  Chinese.  Capricious  is  expressed  by  ‘three 
mornings,  four  evenings’;  cunning  speech  by  ‘convenient  hind- 
teeth’  persuasive  speech  by  ‘convenient  front-teeth’;  disagree- 
ment by  ‘you  east,  I west.’ 

Now,  when  the  same  word  is  applied  successively  to  different 
objects,  the  effect  is  similar  to  adding  so  many  new  words  to  the 
language,  making  it  more  copious  and  rich.  Mark  the  various 
ways  in  which  the  shining  of  the  sun  is  here  represented: 

‘And  all  his  splendor  floods  the  towered  walls.’ 

'Solv'd  the  earth  with  orient  pearl.' 

‘With  rosy  fingers  unbarred  the  gates  of  light.' 

‘Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 

Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire.’ 

‘A  dazzling  deluge  reigns.’ 

‘The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Roll'd  o’er  the  glen  their  level  way.’ 

‘The  sanguine  snnrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes , 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread.' 

Thus  language,  in  its  entirety , is  not  given,  but  grows  with  the 
growth  of  thought  and  experience.  New  ideas  spring  up  which 
require  new  forms  of  expression.  New  inventions  in  art  or  new 
discoveries  in  science  require  new  terms.  When  moral  and 
spiritual  forces  are  especially  active,  the  language  of  a people  is 
required  to  utter  new  truths,  and  so  is  extended  and  multiplied, 
as  the  channel  of  a river  is  deepened  and  widened  by  increasing 
the  volume  of  the  waters  which  flow  through  it. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  further,  that  while  an  articulate  word, 
addressed  to  the  ear,  is  the  sign  of  an  idea,  a written  word,  merely 
exhibiting  the  same  thing  to  the  eye,  is  but  the  sign  of  this 
sign  — an  artificial  dress.  Language,  therefore,  in  its  proper 
nature,  consists  not  of  strokes  made  by  the  pen,  nor  of  marks 
made  in  any  other  way,  but  of  sounds  uttered  by  the  voice  and 
the  organs  of  articulation,  being  to  man  somewhat  as  neighing  is 
to  a horse  or  squealing  to  a pig.  Many  languages  have  existed 
that  never  were  written,  and  those  that  in  time  have  come  to  be 
written,  first  existed  in  an  unwritten  state. 

Diversities. — The  following  is  a specimen  of  the  English 
tongue,  as  spoken  and  written  in  London,  in  the  year  1300: 

Ac  heo  and  hi  booth  ifuled  mid  sunnen,  and  so  ich  habbe  iseid  to  thilke 

But  she  they  are  filled  with  sins , I have  said  that 

levedy  nche  day;  answereth,  men,  nis  it  nought  so? 
lady  each  answer , is  not 


44 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


Three  hundred  years  later,  our  Shakespeare  wrote: 

‘ Romans,  Country-men  and  Louers,  heare  mee  for  my  cause,  and  be  silent,  that  yon 
may  heare.  Beleeue  mee  for  mine  Honor,  and  have  respect  to  mine  Honor,  that  you  may 
beleeue.  Censure  mee  in  your  Wisedom,  and  awake  your  Senses,  that  you  may  the  better 
Judge.  If  there  be  any  in  this  Assembly,  any  deere  Friend  of  Ccesar's,  to  him  I say  that 
Brutus'  love  to  Coesar  was  no  less  than  his.’ 

From  these  illustrations,  the  student  will  see,  as  other  exam- 
ples may  have  suggested,  that  our  language  had  not  always  its 
present  form;  and  this  is  only  a particular  instance  of  the 
changes  that  are  always  going  on,  everywhere.  Thus  the  lan- 
guage of  a people  in  one  age  may  become  unintelligible  to  their 
descendants  in  another:  or,  if  a people  have  parted  company, 
one  jjortion  going  forth  to  new  seats,  while  the  other  remained  in 
the  old;  or,  if  both  have  travelled  on,  separating  continually  from 
one  another,  either  section  may  cease  to  be  understood  by  the 
other,  and  their  once  common  speech,  by  the  gradual  unfolding 
of  differences,  may  be  separated  into  two.  Thus  the  Celts  in 
Britain  were,  in  time,  unable  to  communicate  with  the  Celts  in 
Gaul;  and  the  Britons  in  Wales  could  no  longer  converse  with 
the  Britons  in  Cornwall,  from  whom  they  were  separated  by  the 
intrusion  of  a hostile  tribe,  like  a wedge,  between  them.  Thus 
the  Russian,  and  German,  and  Icelandic,  and  Greek,  and  Latin, 
and  Persian,  and  French,  and  English,  were  all  produced  from 
one  language,  spoken  by  the  common  ancestors  of  these  nations, 
when  they  were  living  together  as  an  undivided  family;  and  the 
multitude  of  human  languages  — certainly  not  fewTer  than  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  in  number — sprang,  if  not  from  one,  from  two 
or  three  original  tongues.  The  causes  of  this  divergence  are: 

1.  Difference  of  occupation. — The  vocabulary  of  a farmer 
must  differ  from  that  of  a mariner,  for  his  subjects  of  thought 
are  different.  When  the  Aryans  distributed  themselves  over  the 
poetic  hills  of  Italy  and  Greece,  they  became,  in  the  former,  a 
nation  of  warriors  — wars  engrossing  their  thoughts  for  seven 
hundred  years;  in  the  latter,  a nation  of  warriors,  statesmen, 
orators,  historians,  poets,  critics,  painters,  sculptors,  architects, 
philosophers;  and  this  difference  was  evermore  at  work  to  make 
two  the  languages  that  once  were  one.  Language,  in  the  former, 
became  copious  in  terms  expressive  of  things  political;  in  the 
latter,  it  became  universal , like  the  ideas  for  which  it  stood. 

2.  Difference  of  pro <jr ess  in  the  sciences  and  the  arts. — New 


DIVERSITIES  OF  SPEECH. 


45 


facts  or  new  ideas  require  new  words.  Wherever  any  science  is 
progressive,  there  must  be  a corresponding-  progress  in  its  forms 
of  expression.  Any  considerable  change  in  society  — in  its  gov- 
ernment, religion,  or  habits  — demands  the  invention  of  words 
which  in  a former  period  were  not  required. 

3.  Difference  of  geographical  position. — When  a people  with 

a common  tongue  is  divided  into  separate  tribes  by  emigration, 
or  by  any  of  the  causes  which  break  up  large  nations  into  smaller 
fragments,  their  speeches  become  distinct,  as  differences  of  char- 
acter are  developed,  or  in  the  degree  in  which  communication 
between  them  is  interrupted.  («.)  One  branch  comes  into  con- 
tact with  new  races  or  objects  which  the  other  does  not  en- 
counter, and  so  upon  the  old  stock  engrafts  numerous  words 
which  the  other  does  not.  (b.)  In  one  branch  a word  will  perish, 
or  be  thrust  out  of  general  use,  but  live  on  in  the  other.  For 
example,  the  words  snag,  bluff,  slick,  and  others,  would  now  be 
lost  to  the  English  tongue,  were  it  not  for  the  American  branch 
of  the  English-speaking  race,  (c.)  Words  will  gradually  acquire 
a different  meaning  in  one  branch  from  what  they  have  in  an- 
other. Thus,  in  Northumberland,  they ‘shear’  their  wheat;  here,, 
we  ‘shear’  our  sheep . (c7.)  The  pronunciation  and  spelling  of 

the  same  word  will,  in  one,  be  different  from  what  it  is  in  the 
other.  Thus  the  Germans  and  the  English,  using  the  very  same 
word,  pronounce  and  spell  it, — the  former,  ‘fowl’;  the  latter, 
‘vogel.’  (e.)  The  language  of  one  section  may  remain  station- 
ary, because  their  ideas  remain  so;  while  that  of  the  other  is 
kept  in  motion,  because  their  understanding  is  ever  advancing, 
and  their  knowledge  is  ever  increasing. 

4.  Difference  of  climate. — Influences  of  climate  and  soil  ac- 
count, in  large  measure,  for  the  harsh  and  guttural  sounds  mut- 
tered by  those  who  live  in  moist  or  cold  mountainous  regions, 
and  the  soft  and  liquid  tones  of  those  who  live  in  fertile  plains 
under  a more  genial  sky.  Thus  Byron : 

‘I  love  the  language,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 

Which  melts  like  kisses  from  a female  mouth, 

And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 

With  syllables  that  breathe  of  the  sweet  South. 

And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 

That  not  a single  accent  seems  uncouth, 

Like  our  harsh , northern , whistling , grunting , guttural , 

Which  we’re  obliged  to  hiss , and  spit  and  sputter  all.' 


46 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


Physical  circumstances  reach  far  in  their  effects,  not  alone  upon 
the  organs  of  speech,  but  upon  the  character  as  well.  It  is  not 
too  much  to  assert  that  the  profound  differences  which  are  mani- 
fest between  the  German  races  on  the  one  side,  heavy,  bent  on 
fighting,  prone  to  drunkenness  and  gluttony,  and  the  Greek  and 
Latin  races  on  the  other,  ready,  flexible,  inquisitive,  artistic, 
loving  conversations  and  tales  of  adventure, — arise  chiefly  from 
the  difference  between  the  countries  in  which  they  are  settled. 
Religion,  to  the  Greek,  is  an  epic;  to  the  Teuton,  a tragedy. 

Dialects. — Whenever  a homogeneous  people  is  divided  into 
separate  and  unconnected  tribes  by  emigration  or  local  causes, 
the  speeches  of  the  different  members  of  the  race  become,  there- 
fore, more  or  less  distinct;  and  each,  in  this  changed  condition, 
is  called  a dialect:  in  other  words,  a dialect  is  a branch  of  a 
j)arent  language,  with  such  alterations  as  time  or  revolution 
may  have  introduced  among  descendants  of  the  same  people, 
living  in  separate  or  remote  situations.  Dialects,  then,  are  those 
forms  of  speech  which  have  a certain  character  of  their  own  by 
which  they  are  distinguished  from  one  another,  yet  a common 
character  by  which  they  are  allied  to  one  another  and  hence  to 
some  mother  tongue,  just  as  indigo  and  sky-blue  are  different 
shades  of  the  same  color.  Their  common  character  will  be 
shown  : first,  by  their  similar  grammatical  forms,  such  as  the 
endings  of  nouns,  verbs,  and  the  like;  second,  by  their  having 
many  of  the  most  common  and  most  necessary  words  essentially 
the  same.  Thus,  when  the  Teutons  settled  in  the  western  prov- 
inces of  the  Roman  Empire,  there  arose  a new  state  of  things, 
which  was  neither  Roman  nor  Teutonic,  but  a combination  of 
both.  Being  much  fewer  in  number,  the  conquerors  adopted 
the  religion,  and  a great  deal  of  the  laws  and  manners,  and  espe- 
cially the  language  of  the  conquered.  At  this  time,  the  com- 
mon language  of  Spain,  Italy,  and  Gaul,  was  Latin  — not  quite 
the  same  as  the  earlier  Latin  of  Cicero,  and,  no  doubt,  more 
or  less  different  in  different  localities.  As  the  Germans  had 
to  learn  this  Latin  in  order  to  get  on  with  the  people,  many 
German  words  crept  into  it,  and  it  naturally  became  still  more 
unlike  what  it  had  been.  At  last,  men  began  to  understand 
that  quite  new  languages  had  really  grown  up.  Thus,  from 
the  mixture  of  the  Teutonic  settlers  with  the  Roman  inhab- 


DIALECTS. 


47 


itants,  there  slowly  arose  the  modern  nations  of  Spain,  Italy, 
.and  France,  and  from  the  mixture  of  their  languages,  there 
gradually  sprung  the  modern  /Spanish,  Italian,  and  French , — 
each,  when  considered  with  reference  to  the  Latin,  called  a dia- 
lect/ but  viewed  by  itself,  as  distinct  from  either  of  the  others, 
a language.  These  newly  formed  languages,  derived  by  more 
or  less  direct  processes  from  one  and  the  same  ancient  tongue  — 
the  Roman  Latin  — are  known  as  the  Romance  tongues.  Their 
homogeneity  is  clearly  traceable  in  the  following  versions  of  the 
first  verse,  first  chapter,  of  St.  John: 

Latin. — In  principio  ( beginning ) erat  (was)  Verbum  (Word),  ct  (and)  Verbnm  erat 
.apud  (with)  Demn  (God),  ct  Dens  erat  Verbum. 

Italian.— Nel  principio  la  Parola  era,  e la  Parola  era  appo  Iddio,  e la  Parola  era  Dio. 

French.— Au  commencement  etait  la  Parole,  et  la  Parole  etait  avec  Dieu,  et  cette  Parole 
.etait  Dieu. 

Spanish. — En  el  principio  era  el  Verbo,  y el  Verbo  estaba  con  Dios,  y el  Verbo  era  Dios. 

Again,  any  of  these,  as  split  up  into  different  local  forms  or 
provincial  idioms,  may  be  regarded  as  composed  of  an  aggregate 
of  dialects  proper;  for  every  language  is  marked  by  certain  pecu- 
liarities in  different  quarters  of  the  same  country.  Thus  two 
hundred  years  ago,  a man  in  London  would  say,  ‘I  would  eat 
more  cheese,  if  I had  it.’  One  in  the  Northern  counties  would 
have  said,  ‘Ay  sud  eat  mare  cheese,  gin  ay  had  it.’  The  West- 
ern man  said,  ‘Chud  eat  more  cheese,  and  chad  it.’  The  rustic 
Westmorelander,  to  the  question,  ‘How  far  is  it?’  replies,  ‘Why, 
like  it  garly  nigh  like  to  four  miles  like.’  The  conjugation  of  the 
Southern  slave  is,  ‘I  was  done  gone,  you  was  done  gone,  he  was 
done  gone.’ 

We  are  not,  however,  to  think  of  a dialect  as  a vulgar  form  of 
the  classical  or  literary  speech,  and  its  modes  of  expression  as 
violations  of  grammar,  but  rather  as  one  of  the  forms  in  which 
language,  passing  through  its  successive  phases,  once  existed. 
Here  and  there  its  departures  from  what  we  have  been  used  to, 
may  be  set  down  to  the  ignorance  or  stupidity  of  the  speaker. 
But  much  oftener  its  words,  its  singular  combinations,  which 
appear  to  us  as  barbarisms,  were  once  reputable,  employed  by  all, 
and  happen  to  have  found  an  abiding  place  in  certain  districts 
which  have  not  kept  abreast  with  the  advances  which  the  lan- 
guage has  made.  Thus,  in  parts  of  England,  for  ‘we  sing,’  ‘ye 
sing,’  ‘they  sing,’  they  yet  use  the  plurals  ‘we  singen,’  ‘ye 


48 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


singen,’  ‘they  singen,’ — a mode  of  declension  which  arose  in  the- 
time  of  Chaucer,  and  was  constantly  employed  by  Spenser.  We 
are  told,  indeed,  that  this  form  of  the  plural  is  still  retained  in 
parts  of  Maryland.  It  is  not  very  uncommon,  in  the  country,  to 
hear  one  say,  ‘I’m  a f ear  cl J or  ‘I’ll  ax  him,’  or  ‘the  price  riz  yes- 
terday,’ or  ‘I’ll  tell  ye’/  and  we  are  apt  to  esteem  such  phrases 
violations  of  the  primary  rules  of  grammar,  but  they  are  the  forms 
which  the  words  once  regularly  and  grammatically  assumed.  An 
old  Dative,  tham , from  tha,  is  still  in  use  among  our  lower  orders; 
as,  ‘Look  at  them  boys.’  Ourn  for  ours , and  hern  for  hers , 
which  are  not  infrequent  among  us,  were  freely  employed  by 
Wycliffe,  who  wrote  standard  English.  We  are  not  therefore  to 
conclude  that  these  forms  are  good  English  now:  for  in  writing 
or  speaking  we  are  bound  to  conform  to  present  use  and  custom,, 
just  as  in  buying  or  selling  we  are  to  use  the  form  of  money  that 
is  circulating,  not  that  which  was  current  in  the  Revolution,  or 
which  has  long  been  withdrawn  from  circulation. 

Idioms. — Nations,  like  individuals,  have  their  peculiar  ideas;, 
and,  since  the  sign  must  correspond  to  the  thing  signified,  these 
peculiar  ideas  become  the  genius  of  their  language.  The  idioms 1 
of  a given  tongue  are  the  modes  of  expression  in  harmony  with 
its  genius.  For  example: 

Arma  virumque  cano,  Trojae  qui  primus  ab  oris  Italian!,  fato 

Arms  man-and,  ( lysing  (< ofyTroy  who  first  from  coasts  (to)- Italy  ( by)-fate 
profugus,  Laviniaque  venit  litora. — Virgil. 

(an)-exile  Laviman-and  came  shores. 

Such  an  arrangement,  though  natural  to  Latin,  is  quite  foreign  to 
English : 

7 sing  of  arms , and  the  man  who  first  from  the  coasts  of  Troy , by  fate  an  exile , came  to 
Italy  and  the  Lavinian  shores. 

That  order  and  diction  are  idiomatic  which  are  used  habitually , — 
in  conversation  or  familiar  letters.  Thus,  when  Dr.  Johnson  said 
of  the  Rehearsal,  ‘ It  has  not  wit  enough  to  keep  it  sweet,’  he  was 
idiomatic;  but  when,  after  a moment’s  reflection,  he  expressed  it, 
‘ It  has  not  sufficient  virtue  to  preserve  it  from  putrefaction,’  he 
was  tmidiomatic.  When  he  wrote,  ‘I  bore  the  diminution  of  my 
riches  without  any  outrages  of  sorrow  or  pusillanimity  of  dejec- 
tion,’ he  used  a style  in  which  no  one  quarrels,  makes  love,  or 

1 From  the  Greek,  meaning  proper  or  peculiar. 


IDIOMS.  ARYAN  MOTHER-TONGUE. 


49 


thinks.  The  native  idiom  is  forcibly  distinguished  from  the  for- 
eign in  the  following: 

Idiomatic.— Then  Apollyon  straddled  quite  over  the  whole  breadth  of  the  way,  and  said, 
I am  void  of  fear  in  this  matter:  prepare  thyself  to  die;  for  I swear  by  my  infernal  Den  that 
thou  shalt  go  no  further:  here  will  I spill  thy  soul. — Pilgrim's  Progress. 

Unidiomatic.  — Unquestionably,  benignity  and  commiseration  shall  continge  all  the 
diuternity  of  my  vitality,  and  I will  eternalize  my  habitude  in  the  metropolis  of  nature. — 
Psalm  xxiii,  6 (a  modern  version). 

It  is  remarked  by  De  Quincey,  that  ‘the  pure  idiom  of  our 
mother-tongue  survives  only  amongst  our  women  and  children; 
not,  heaven  knows,  amongst  our  women  who  write  books.’ 
‘Would  you  desire  at  this  day,’  he  continues,  ‘to  read  our  noble 
language  in  its  native  beauty,  picturesque  form,  idiomatic  pro- 
priety, racy  in  its  phraseology,  delicate  yet  sinewy  in  its  compo- 
sition,— steal  the  mail-bags,  and  break  open  all  the  letters  in 
female  handwriting.’ 

It  need  not  be  a matter  of  surprise,  therefore,  that  those  writers 
who  are  most  idiomatic  — as  Bunyan,  Shakespeare,  Longfellow  — 
are  the  most  popular.  They  are  understood  with  least  effort. 

Indo-European. — On  noticing  how  closely  our  word  house 
resembles  the  German  haus , or  the  English  thou  hast  the  German 
du  hasty  the  reader  might  suspect,  without  other  evidence  than 
this  likeness  in  words  and  in  o-rammar,  that  the  two  lanomae’es 
are  brothers  and  sisters.  By  extending  this  comparison  to  a 
large  number  of  languages,  scholars  have  shown  that  nearly  all 
the  languages  in  Europe,  with  a part  of  those  in  Asia,  are  related 
by  having  descended  from  a common  parent,  namely  a language 
spoken  somewhere  between  the  Indus  and  the  Euphrates.  These 
kindred  tongues  are  therefore  called  the  Indo-European ,*  or  the 
Aryan 2 family.  This  family  is  subdivided  into  several  groups, 
each  group  consisting  of  those  languages  which  most  resemble 
one  another: 

1.  Celtic , preserved  to  us  chiefly  in  two  dialects, — the  Welsh , 
whose  oldest  literature  extends  back  to  the  sixth  century;  and 
the  Irish , with  a literature  dating  from  the  fifth. 

2.  Latin,  containing  the  dialects  sprung  from  it,  or  the  Ro- 
mance (modified  Roman)  languages, — Italian , French , Spanish , 
and  Portuguese.  Its  oldest  literary  records  date  from  300  b.c. 

1 Referring  to  the  territorial  position  and  the  geographical  connection  of  the  races 
which  speak  the  languages  it  represents. 

2 The  historic  name  applied  to  the  people  originally  speaking  this  mother-tongue. 

4 


50 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


3.  Greek,  represented  by  the  modern  Greek,  or  Romaic , which 
is  descended  from  it.  Its  earliest  records  are  the  poems  of  Homer, 
1000  b.c. 

4.  Persian , containing  Ancient  and  Modern  Persian.  Its 
earliest  extant  writing  is  the  A vesta,  or  the  Bible  of  Zoroaster, 
claiming  an  antiquity  of  seven  thousand  years. 

5.  Indian,  containing  the  Sanskrit,1  which  is  the  oldest  of  all 
the  Indo-European  languages,  and  the  modern  dialect  of  India. 
Among  the  earliest  extant  works  in  this  language  are  the  Vedas , 
or  the  Bible  of  the  Hindoos,  written  in  Sanskrit,  probably  five 
thousand  years  ago. 

6.  Slavonic ,2  containing  the  Russian  (its  most  important  rep- 
resentative), Polish,  and  Bohemian. 

7.  Teutonic,  or  Germanic,  containing: 

(1.)  The  Mceso- Gothic,  the  language  of  the  Goths  (a  nation 
of  Teutons),  in  Moesia.  The  oldest  German  dialect  in  existence. 
Extinct  as  a spoken  language,  but  preserved  to  us  by  one  Ulfilas, 
a bishop  of  the  Goths,  who  translated  the  Scriptures  into  Gothic 
for  the  benefit  of  his  countrymen,  about  the  close  of  the  fourth 
century.  Only  parts  of  this  translation  remain,  of  which  the  most 
famous  is  the  Silver  Book,  so  called  from  its  being  transmitted  to 
us  in  letters  of  silver  and  gold. 

(2.)  The  High  German,  at  first  only  spoken  in  the  highlands 
of  Central  and  Southern  Germany.  It  may  be  represented  by  the 
modern  literary  German,  the  language  into  which  Luther  trans- 
lated the  Bible. 

(3.)  The  Low  German,  spoken  originally  along  the  low-lying 
shores  of  the  German  Ocean  and  the  Baltic  Sea.  From  this 
region  our  Saxon  fathers  came,  and  hence  the  Low  German  in- 
cludes our  present  English.  It  may  now  be  represented  by  the 
language  of  Holland,  or  Low  Butch,  to  which  English  bears  the 
strongest  likeness,  as  appears  in  the  following: 

In  den  beginne  was  het  woord,  en  het  woord  was  bij  God,  en  het  woord  was  God. — SL 
John  i , 1. 

(4.)  The  Scandinavian,  represented  by  the  Danish,  Swedish, 
and  Norwegian;  but  best  by  the  Icelandic,  from  which  come  its 
earliest  literary  memorials. 

1 Meaning  classical  or  literary , in  distinction  from  the  language  used  by  the  common 
people. 

2 The  Slavs  were  the  third  stream  of  Aryan  emigrants  into  Europe. 


ELEMENTS  OF  ENGLISH. 


51 


The  accompanying  Linguistic  Tree  may  be  assumed  to  repre- 
sent the  Aryan  mother-tongue  in  process  of  ramification,  while  it 
may  furnish  a general  conception  of  the  Aryan  migrations.  One 
main  fact  will  be  apparent — ‘Westward  the  course  of  empire 
takes  its  way.’ 


English. — This  is  the  language  used  by  the  people  of  Eng- 
land, and  by  all  who  speak  like  them  elsewhere;  for  example,  in 
the  United  States. 

Historical  Elements. — Its  ingredients  are  derived  from 
sources  as  varied  as  the  English  blood.  Of  these,  as  the  reader 
will  understand  from  the  historical  sketch,  the  most  important 
are: 

1.  Celtic , the  oldest  of  our  philological  benefactors. — It  does 
not  appear,  however,  to  have  at  all  modified  the  syntax  or  affected 
the  articulation  of  the  language,  but  to  have  remained  a foreign 
unassimilated  accretion.  It  contributes  to  the  vocabulary  a large 
number  of  geographical  names,  as  Thames , Kent / and  some  mis- 
cellaneous words,  as  basket , button , mop , pail,  rail , bard , etc. 
Between  the  Anglo-Saxons  and  the  Celts,  and  hence  between 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


their  respective  tongues,  there  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a reciprocal 
repulsion. 

2.  Latin. — From  this  we  have  borrowed  more  or  less  freely  for 
many  centuries.  To  the  Roman  conquest  we  are  indebted  com- 
paratively little.  A few  civil  and  military  terms  were  adopted 
by  the  Saxon  invaders.  Of  these,  some  are  lost,  and  others  are 
changed.  Thus,  strata , denoting  a paved  road,  is  changed  to 
street / vallum , a rampart,  is  retained  in  wall / castra , a fortified 
camp,  reappears  in  Gloucester , once  written  Glevse  castra;  colo- 
nia , a colony,  is  changed  to  coin , as  in  Lincoln  ( Lindi  colonia). 

The  Christian  missionaries  of  the  sixth  century  made  Latin  the 
official  language  of  the  Church,  and,  to  some  extent,  the  medium 
of  religious,  moral  and  intellectual  instruction;  and  thus  intro- 
duced a considerable  number  of  Latin  words,  chiefly  ecclesiastical. 
Examples  are,  episcopus , bishop;  monachus , monk;  epistolci , 
epistle;  which  were  written,  bisceopr  munuc,  pistel. 

But  the  great  majority  of  Latinisms  have  arisen  in  three 
epochs, — the  thirteenth  century,  which  followed  an  age  devoted 
to  classical  studies;  the  sixteenth,  which  witnessed  a new  revival 
of  admiration  for  antiquity;  and  the  eighteenth,  when  Johnson, 
who  loved  to  coin  in  the  Roman  mint,  was  the  dictator  of  prose 
style. 

3.  Danish.  — The  Danes  have  bequeathed  us  few  words  and 
relatively  unimportant;  such  as  fellow,  fro,  gait,  ill,  etc.,  includ- 
ing some  local  names  extending  over  the  grounds  of  their  settle- 
ments. 

4.  Nor  mail- French. — This  was  spoken  in  Northern  France  — 
Normandy;  and,  as  the  student  should  now'  be  aware,  was  com- 
posed of  three  elements, — the  Celtic,1  the  Latin,  the  Teutonic.3 
It  wras  the  dominant  speech  in  England  between  two  and  three 
hundred  years,  the  vernacular  finding  its  refuge  in  the  cottages  of 
the  rustic  and  illiterate.  By  the  gradual  coalescence  of  the  two 
races,  its  influence  was  very  great,  both  by  introducing  many  new 
w^ords  and  by  changing  the  spelling  and  sound  of  old  ones. 

5.  Greek. — To  this  source  we  are  indebted  for  scientific  terms, 
slightly  for  terms  in  common  use;  as,  botany,  physics , ethics , 
music,  didactic,  melancholy  (literally,  black-bile). 

1 The  Celts  settled  in  this  region  were  known,  it  will  be  remembered,  as  Gauls. 

3 The  Franks  and  Danes. 


EARLY  ENGLISH. 


53 


G.  Anglo-Saxon. — This  is  not  so  much  an  element,  evidently, 
as  it  is  the  mother  tongue,  or  the  stock, — the  stream  to  which  the 
rest  have  been  tributary.  It  is  estimated  that  the  percentage 
of  Anglo-Saxon  in  modern  English,  exclusive  of  scientific  and 
provincial  terms,  is  about  five-eighths;  in  the  vocabulary  of  con- 
versation, four-fifths.  The  following  table  may  be  of  interest,  as 
showing  approximately,  the  relative  proportion  of  Anglo-Saxon 
in  the  departments  of  general  literature: 


Bible, - 

93 

Prayer-Book,  - - - - 

87 

Poetry,  ------ 

88 

Fiction, 

87 

Essay, 

78 

Oratory, 

76 

History,  

72 

Newspaper,  - - - - 

72 

Rhetoric, 

GO 

Original  English  (449  — 1066).  — This,  as  we  have 
learned,  was  Anglo-Saxon.  From  what  has  been  said,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  this  form  of  English,  or  Old  English,  as  it  is  sometimes 
called,  resulted  from  the  blending  together  of  the  several  kindred 
dialects  spoken  by  the  Germanic  tribes  who  invaded  Britain  be- 
tween the  middle  of  the  fifth  and  the  middle  of  the  sixth  centuries. 
We  have  used  the  word  ‘kindred’  to  indicate  that  while  there 
was  a difference  of  dialect  among  the  invaders,  they  all  used  sub- 
stantially the  same  language. 

From  the  specimens  already  given,  the  reader  need  not  be  told 
that  the  language  first  brought  from  Northern  Germany  to  Eng- 
land was  so  different  from  ours  that  we  should  not  understand  it 
if  we  heard  it  spoken;  nor  can  we  learn  to  read  it  without  very 
nearly  as  much  study  as  is  required  to  learn  French  or  German. 
Its  alphabet  consisted  of  twenty-four  characters,  only  two  of 
which,  as  Anglo-Saxon  books  are  now  printed,  are  familiar  to  the 
eye.  These  represent  the  two  sounds  of  th  as  heard  in  thine  and 
thin.  As  compared  with  our  present  English,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
is  called  an  inflectional  tongue;  that  is,  it  indicated  the  relations 
of  words  by  a correspondence  of  forms , the  form  being  varied 
according  to  the  number,  person,  case,  mood,  tense,  gender, 
degree  of  comparison,  and  other  conditions;  whereas,  such  rela- 
tions are  now  indicated  by  position,  auxiliaries  and  particles,  the 
words  themselves  remaining  for  the  most  part  unvaried. 

Thus  the  Latin  ‘bib-ere’  was  translated  by  ‘drinc-a^,’  but  now 
by  to  drink.  We  now  say  ‘I  love’  and  ‘We  love,’  without  any 


54: 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


change  in  the  form  of  the  word  love’  but  the  Anglo-Saxons  used, 
for  the  first,  lufige , and  for  the  second  lujiath.  To  say  ‘I  shall 
help,’  and  ‘ We  shall  help,’  the  same  form  of  the  verb  serves  us 
equally  well;  but  they  thought  different  forms  were  necessary, — 
sceal  helpan,.  and  sculon  helpan:  whence  we  see  that  our  pres- 
ent auxiliary  verbs,  used  as  mere  indications  of  time,  were  once 
inflected  and  used  as  principal  verbs, — for  example,  I shall  to 
help  and  we  shall  to  help.  In  the  sentences,  ‘ They  were  good 
hunters,’  and  ‘ They  had  the  appearance  of  good  hunters,’ 
the  one  form  ‘good  hunters’  expresses  equally  well  both  relations; 
but  the  Anglo-Saxons  would  have  expressed  it,  ‘hunt-an  god-e,’ 
and  ‘hunt-ena  god-ra,’  varying  the  form  both  of  the  adjective  and 
the  noun.  This  variation  of  form , therefore,  to  suit  the  offices 
which  a word  may  have  to  perform  in  the  sentence,  is  what  we 
are  to  understand  by  inflection.  The  accidence  and  arrangement 
of  English  then,  as  distinguished  from  i.ts  analytic  character  now, 
are  well  illustrated  in  the  following  passage  from  King  Alfred,  in 
whose  time  the  language,  as  a synthetic  tongue,  reached  its  best 
estate: 


lFela  spella  him  ssedon  tha 
Beormas  aehther  ge  of  hym 
agenum  lande,  ge  of  thaem  iande  the 
ymb  hy  utan  wseron : ac  he 
nyste  hwset  thses  sothes  waer, 
for  thaem  he  hit  sylf  ne  ge  seah.’ 


Many  tidings  (to)  him  said  the 
Beormas  either  ( i.e . both)  of  their 
own  lande,  and  of  them  lands  that 
around  them  about  were:  but  he 
wist-not  what  (of)  the  sooth  (truth)  was, 
for  that  he  itself  not  'y-saw. 


Transition  English. — After  a while  men  began  to  think 
that  so  many  terminations  were  useless,  that  they  were  too  cum- 
bersome, involving  a waste  of  time  and  energy  in  writing  and 
speaking;  for  man  is  either  a very  lazy  or  a very  practical  animal, 
and  dislikes  to  say  do  not,  can  not , and  shall  not , when  he  can 
more  easily  and  quickly  say  don't,  can't,  and  shan't.  I have 
been  loved  is  not  quite  so  laborious  as  ‘Ic  wms  fulfremedlice 
gelufod.’  So,  as  a matter  of  economy,  to  save  breath  and  secure 
a freer  utterance,  sentential  structure  became  less  periodic,  most 
of  the  inflections  were  dropped;  while  short  auxiliaries,  or  help- 
words,  were  used  instead.  This  result,  though  natural,  was  very 
much  accelerated  by  the  Norman  Conquest;  for  by  that  event 
the  language  was  driven  from  literature  and  polite  society,  being 
there  displaced  by  French  and  Latin.  No  longer  fixed  in  books, 
and  living  only  on  the  lips  of  the  ignorant,  it  was  broken  up  into 


TRANSITION  ENGLISH. 


numerous  diverging’  dialects,  of  which  the  chief  were  the  North- 
ern, Midland,  and  Southern;  nor  did  it  again  receive  literary  cul- 
ture till  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  from  which 
date  it  steadily  advanced,  till,  in  the  form  of  the  East  Midland 
dialect,  it  acquired  complete  and  final  ascendency  in  the  hands  of 
Chaucer  and  Wycliffe  — the  first  the  forerunner  of  English  Litera- 
ture, the  second,  of  the  Reformation. 

This,  then,  was  a period  of  confusion,  alike  perplexing  to 
those  who  used  the  language  and  to  those  who  wish  to  trace  its 
vicissitudes, — a period  in  which  the  old  was  passing,  through  a 
state  of  ruin,  into  the  new.  The  two  languages,  native  and 
stranger,  hitherto  repellent,  began  slowly  to  melt  into  a har- 
monious whole;  and  the  former,  with  a distinct  and  recognizable 
existence,  though  gorged  with  unorganized  material,  was  fitting” 
for  a vigorous  and  prolific  growth. 

The  process  of  disorganization  and  decay  may  be  exhibited  to 
the  eye  by  the  following  extract  from  the  Saxon  Chronicle,  the 
second  column  showing  what  the  text  would  be  if  written  in 
purer  Saxon: 


‘Hi  swencttf/i  the  wrecce  men  of 
the  lanc^  mid  castel  weorces. 

Tha  the  castles  waren  ma ked 
tha  fylden  hi  mid  yvele  men.  Tha 
namen  hi  tha  men  the  hi  wenden. 
thaet  a ni  God  hefclen  bathe  be 
nighfes  and'  be  dceies. 1 


Hi  swencon  tha  wreccan  menn  of 
tham  lande  mid  castel-weorcum. 

Tha  tha  castel  woeron  gemacod 
tha  fyldon  hi  mid  yfelon  manum.  Tha 
namon  hi  tha  menn  tha  hi  wendon 
thaet  senig  God  haefdon  batwa  be 
nihte  & be  daege. 


It  may  be  of  interest  to  watch,  in  early  versions  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer , that  series  of  mutations  by  which  Anglo-Saxon  was 
passing  gradually  into  modern  English : 


A.D.  700.  Thu  ure  Fader,  the  eart  on  heofenum, 

Si  thin  noman  gehalgod, 

Cume  thin  rike, 

Si  thin  Willa  on  eorthan  twa  on  heofenum; 
Syle  us  todag  orne  daegwanlican  hlaf, 

And  forgif  ns  ure  gylter, 

Swa  we  fogifath  tham  the  with  us  agylthat ; 
And  ne  laed  thu  na  us  on  kostnunge; 

Ac  alys  us  fronn  yfele. 

Si  bit  swa. 


A.D.  890.  Faeder  ure  thu  the  eart  on  hoefenum, 

Si  thin  nama  gehalgod; 

To  becume  thin  rice. 

Gewurthe  thin  willa  on  eorthan  swa  swa  on  heofenum, 

Urne  daeghwamlican  hlaf  syle  us  to  daeg: 

And  forgyf  us  ure  gyltas,  swa  swa  we  forgifoth  urum  gyltendumr 


56 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


A.D.  1120. 


And  ne  gelaedde  thu  us  on  costnunge, 
Ac  alys  us  of  yfele.  Sothlice. 

Ure  Fader  in  Heven  rich, 


Thy  name  be  halyed  ever  lich. 
Thou  bring  us  thy  michel  bliese, 
Als  bit  in  heven  y doe; 

Evear  in  yearth  been  it  alsoe. 
That  holy  brede  that  lasteth  ay, 
Thou  send  us  this  ilke  day. 
Forgive  us  all  that  we  have  done 
As  we  forgive  ech  other  one. 

Ne  let  us  fall  into  no  founding, 
Ne  sheld  us  frym  the  foule  thing. 


Hal ud  be  thy  nam  to  nevene: 
Thou  do  us  thy  rich  rike: 

Thi  will  on  erd  be  wrought  elk, 
Als  it  es  wrought  in  heven  ay: 
Ur  ilk  day  brede  give  us  to  day: 
Forgive  thou  all  us  dettes  urs 
Als  we  forgive  all  ur  detturs: 
And  ledde  us  na  in  na  fanding, 
But  sculd  us  fra  ivel  thing. 


■{East  Midland.)  Halged  be  thi  name  with  giftis  sevene; 


Samm  cume  thi  kingdom, 

Thi  wille  in  herthe  als  in  hevene  be  don; 
Ure  bred  that  lastes  ai 
Gyve  it  hus  this  hilke  dai, 

And  ure  misdedis  thu  forgyve  hus, 

Als  we  forgyve  tham  that  misdon  hus, 
And  lcod  us  intol  na  fandinge, 

Bot  frels  us  fra  alle  ivele  thinge.  Amen. 


Native  Features  of  English. — 1.  Its  grammar  is  almost 
exclusively  Anglo-Saxon.  2.  Anglo-Saxon  is  eminently  the  or- 
gan of  practical  action  — the  language  of  business,  of  the  street, 
market,  and  farm.  3.  The  specific  terms  of  the  English  tongue 
are  Anglo-Saxon,  while  the  generic  terms  are  foreign  — Latin, 
Greek,  or  French.  Thus,  we  are  Romans  when  we  speak,  in  a 
general  way,  of  moving;  but  Teutons  when  we  run,  icalk , leap , 
stagger , slip , ride , slide,  glide . 4.  The  Saxon  gives  us  names 
for  the  greater  part  of  natural  objects;  as,  sun , moon , stars , 
rain,  snow , hill,  dale.  5.  Those  words  expressive  of  strongest 
feelings  are  Saxon ; as,  home,  hearth,  fireside,  life,  death,  man 
and  wife,  father  and  mother,  brother  and  sister,  love  and  hate, 
hope  and  fear,  gladness  and  sorrow.  6.  A large  proportion  of 
the  language  of  invective,  humor,  satire,  and  colloquial  pleas- 
antry, is  Saxon.  7.  In  short,  to  the  Saxon  belongs  the  vocabu- 


A.D.  1250. 


Fadir  ur  that  es  in  hevene, 


A.D.  1250. 


Ure  fadir  that  hart  in  hevene, 


THE  HISTORY  IN  WORDS. 


57 

lary  of  common  life,  including*  our  colloquialisms,  idiomatic 
phrases,  and  the  language  of  conversation.  Thus  we  see  that 
the  essential  element  in  English  is  native.  Between  its  past  and 
present  there  is  only  the  difference  that  exists  between  the  sap- 
ling and  the  tree,  or  between  the  boy  and  the  man. 

Anglo-Norman  History  in  English. — Supposing  all 
other  records  to  have  perished,  we  could  still  trace  the  reciprocal 
relations  of  the  Saxon  and  Norman  occupants  of  England  in  their 
contributions  to  the  language  which  they  have  jointly  bequeathed 
us.  Thus  we  should  conclude  that  the  Norman  was  the  ruling* 
race  from  the  noticeable  fact  that  nearly  all  the  words  of  state 
descend  to  us  from  them, — sovereign,  throne , crown , sceptre, 
realm , royalty,  prince,  chancellor , treasurer.  Norman  aristocracy 
transmits  us  duke , baron,  peer,  esquire,  count,  palace,  castle,  hall, 
mansion.  Common  articles  of  dress  are  Saxon, — shirt,  shoes, 
hat,  breeches,  cloak  / but  other  articles,  subject  to  changes  of 
fashion,  are  of  Norman  origin, — yown,  coat , boots,  mantle , cap, 
bonnet,  etc.  Room  and  kitchen  are  Saxon;  chambers,  parlors, 
galleries,  pantries,  and  laundries  are  Norman.  The  Saxon’s 
stool,  bench,  bed,  and  board — often  probably  it  was  no  more  — 
are  less  luxurious  than  the  table,  chair,  and  couch  of  his  Norman 
lord.  The  boor  whose  sturdy  arms  turned  the  soil,  opened  wide 
his  eyes  at  the  Norman  carpet  and  curtain.  While  luxury, 
chivalry,  adornment,  are  Norman,  the  instruments  used  in  cul- 
tivating the  earth,  as  well  as  its  main  products,  are  Saxon, — 
plough,  share,  rake,  scythe,  harrow,  sickle,  spade,  wheat,  rye, 
oats,  grass,  hay,  flax. 

Thus  are  words,  when  we  remove  the  veil  which  custom  and 
familiarity  have  thrown  over  them,  seen  to  be  illustrative  of 
national  life.  As  the  earth  has  its  strata  and  deposits  from  which 
the  geologist  is  able  to  arrive  at  a knowledge  of  the  successive 
physical  changes  through  which  a region  has  passed,  so  language 
has  its  alluvium  and  drift  from  which  the  linguist  may  disinter, 
in  fossil  form,  the  social  condition,  the  imaginations  and  feel- 
ings, of  a period  — a period  far  more  remote  than  any  here 
suggested. 

Superiority  of  Saxon  English.— The  special  reasons 
assignable  for  this  are: 


58 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LANGUAGE. 


1.  Early  association. — A child’s  vocabulary  is  almost  wholly 
Saxon.  He  calls  a thing  nice  or  nasty , not  pleasant  or  disagree- 
able. Words  acquired  later  in  life  are  less  familiar  — less  organi- 
cally connected  with  his  ideas,  and  hence  less  rapidly  suggestive. 

2.  Brevity. — The  fewer  the  words,  the  more  effective  the 
idea, — as,  to  point  to  the  door  is  more  expressive  than  to  say, 
‘Leave  the  room.’  On  the  same  principle,  the  fewer  the  syllables, 
the  stronger  the  impression  produced, — less  time  and  effort  are 
required  to  read  the  sign  and  perceive  the  thing  signified.  Hence 
the  shortness  of  Saxon  words  becomes  a cause  of  their  greater 
force.  One  qualification  must  be  made.  When  great  power  or 
intensity  is  to  be  suggested,  an  expansive  and  sonorous  word, 
allowing  the  consciousness,  a longer  time  to  dwell  on  the  quality 
predicated,  may  be  an  advantage.  A devout  and  poetic  soul 
gazing,  in  stilly  night,  into  stellar  spaces, — what  verb  will  ex- 
press its  emotion?  See , look , think?  — only  the  Latin  contem- 
plate. The  noise  going  to  and  returning  from  hill  to  hill, — what 
word  will  describe  it?  Sound , boom,  roar,  echo,  are  all  too 
tame;  only  reverberate  tells  the  whole.  Hence  the  value  of  the 
Latin  element  in  contributing  to  copiousness  and  strength  of 
expression.  It  is  a pleasing  study  to  observe  how,  in  all  the  best 
writers,  the  long  and  short  are  harmoniously  combined,  as  in 
these  lines  from  Macbeth: 

‘Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand?  No!  this,  my  hand,  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine , 

Making  the  green  one  red.’ 

3.  Definiteness. — ‘ Well-being  arises  from  well-doing,’  is  Saxon. 
‘Felicity  attends  virtue,’  is  Latin.  How  inferior  is  the  second, 
because  less  definite  than  the  first.  The  more  concrete  the  terms, 
the  brighter  the  picture,  as  wagon  and  cart  are  more  vivid  than 

vehicle. 

Therefore,  though  many  words  of  Latin  origin  are  equally 
simple  and  clear,  those  of  Saxon  origin  are,  as  a whole,  more  so, 
and  should  be  preferred.  This  is  the  current  maxim  of  com- 
position, most  happily  enforced  in  the  following  lines: 

‘Think  not  that  strength  lies  in  the  big,  round  word. 

Or  that  the  brief  and  plain  must  needs  be  weak. 

To  whom  can  this  be  true  who  once  has  heard 
The  cry  for  help,  the  tongue  that  all  men  speak, 

When  want,  or  fear,  or  woe,  is  in  the  throat. 


SUMMARY. 


59 


So  that  each  word  gasped  out  is  like  a shriek 
Pressed  from  the  sore  heart,  or  a strange,  wild  note, 

Sung  by  some  fay  or  fiend?  There  is  a strength, 

Which  dies  if  stretched  too  far,  or  spun  too  fine, 

Which  has  more  height  than  breadth,  more  depth  than  length. 

Let  but  this  force  of  thought  and  speech  be  mine, 

And  he  that  will,  may  take  the  sleek,  fat  phrase, 

Which  glows,  but  burns  not,  though  it  beam  and  shine, 

Light,  but  no  heat,— a flash,  but  not  a blaze.’1 

Results. — So  does  the  English  language  combine,  to  an  ex- 
tent unequalled  by  any  other  living  tongue,  the  classic  (Latin) 
and  the  Teutonic, — the  euphony,  sonorousness,  and  harmony  of 
the  first;  the  strength,  tenderness,  and  simplicity  of  the  second; 
a happy  medium  between  French  and  German, — more  grave 
than  the  former,  less  harsh  and  cumbersome  than  the  latter, 
grammatically  simpler  than  either.  From  its  composite  char- 
acter come  that  wealth  and  compass,  that  rich  and  varied  music, 
which  have  made  English  Literature  the  crown  and  glory  of  the 
works  of  man.  It  has  an  abode,  far  and  wide,  in  the  islands  of 
the  earth;  gives  greeting  on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,  as  of  the 
Atlantic.  Fixed  in  multitudes  of  standard  works  and  endeared 
to  the  increasing  millions  who  read  and  speak  it,  the  natural 
growth  of  population,  the  love  of  conquest  and  colonization 
which  has  distinguished  the  Saxon  race  since  they  traversed  the 
German  Ocean  in  their  frail  barks,  will  help  to  extend  and  per- 
petuate its  empire. 


Dr.  J.  A.  Alexander. 


CHAPTER  III. 


FORMING  OF  THE  LITERATURE. 

Wherever  possible,  let  us  not  be  told  about  this  man  or  that.  Let  us  hear  the  man  him- 
self speak,  let  us  see  him  act,  and  let  us  be  left  to  form  our  own  opinions  about  him.—' 
Froude. 

My  friend,  the  times  which  are  gone  are  a book  with  seven  seals : and  what  you  call 
the  spirit  of  past  ages  is  but  the  spirit  of  this  or  that  worthy  gentleman  in  whose  mind  those 
ages  are  reflected. — Goethe. 

The  view  of  human  manners,  in  all  their  variety  of  appearances,  is  both  profitable  and 
agreeable ; and  if  the  aspect  m some  periods  seem  horrid  and  deformed,  we  may  thence 
learn  to  cherish  with  the  greater  anxiety  that  science  and  civility,  which  has  so  close  a con- 
nection with  virtue  and  humanity,  and  which  as  it  is  a sovereign  antidote  against  super- 
stition, is  also  the  most  effectual  remedy  against  vice  and  disorder  of  every  kind.—  Hume. 

Politics. — From  the  primitive  stock — Angles  and  Saxons, 
reinforced  by  the  Danish  ravagers,  buried,  re-elevated,  and  modi- 
fied, by  the  Conquest  — were  to  spring  the  nation  and  its  history. 
In  pursuance  of  Germanic  custom,  there  was  an  early  division  of 
the  kingdom,  as  we  have  seen,  into  counties,  and  of  these  into 
hundreds,  the  latter  partition  supposed  to  contain  a hundred  free 
families.  Each  had  its  tribunal;  the  Court  of  the  Hundred — 
held  by  an  alderman,  next  in  authority  to  the  king  — being  the 
lower.  In  course  of  time,  the  County  Court  became  the  real 
arbiter  of  important  suits,  the  first  contenting  itself  with  pun- 
ishing petty  offences  and  keeping  up  a local  police.  Chiefly  to- 
this  the  English  freeman  looked  for  the  maintenance  of  his  civil 
rights.  The  hundreds  were  further  distributed  into  decennaries , 
or  tithings,  known  as  ‘ten  men’s  tale.’  In  one  of  these,  every 
freeman  above  the  age  of  twelve  was  required  to  be  enrolled. 
The  members  were  a perpetual  bail  for  each  other;  so  that  if 
one  of  the  ten  committed  any  fault,  the  nine  were  indirectly 
responsible.  From  earliest  English  times  there  had  prevailed 
the  usage  of  compurgation , under  which  the  accused  could  be 
acquitted  by  the  oath  of  his  friends,  who  pledged  their  knowl- 
edge, or  at  least  their  belief,  of  his  innocence.  The  following" 
passage  in  the  laws  of  Alfred  refers  to  this  practice: 

GO 


OLD  ENGLISH  JURISPRUDENCE. 


61 


‘ If  any  one  accuse  a king’s  thane  of  homicide,  if  he  dare  to  purge  himself,  let  him  do 
it  along  with  twelve  king's  thanes.’  ‘ If  any  one  accuse  a thane  of  less  rank  than  a king's 
thane,  let  him  purge  himself  along  with  eleven  of  his  equals,  and  one  king's  thane.’ 

Anglo-Saxon  jurisprudence  proceeded,  as  here,  upon  the  maxim 
that  the  best  guarantee  of  every  man’s  obedience  to  the  govern- 
ment was  to  be  sought  in  the  confidence  of  his  neighbors.  This 
privilege,  the  manifest  fountain  of  unblushing  perjury,  was  abol- 
ished by  Henry  II;  though  it  long  afterwards  was  preserved,  by 
exemption,  in  London  and  in  boroughs.  There  was  left,  how- 
ever, the  favorite  mode  of  defence, — the  ordeal , or  ‘judgment 
of  God.’  Innocence  could  be  proved  by  the  power  of  holding 
hot  iron  in  the  hand,  or  by  sinking  when  Hung  into  the  water, 
for  swimming  was  a proof  of  guilt.  When  these  were  annulled 
in  1216,  the  combat  remained,  but  no  longer  applicable  unless 
an  injured  prosecutor  came  forward  to  demand  it.  This  wTas 
of  Norman  origin.  The  nobleman  fought  on  horseback  ; the 
plebeian  on  foot,  with  his  club  and  target.  The  vanquished 
party  forfeited  his  claim  and  paid  a fine.  It  was  the  function 
of  the  court  to  see  that  the  formalities  of  the  combat,  the  ordeal, 
or  the  compurgation,  were  duly  regarded,  and  to  observe  whether 
the  party  succeeded  or  succumbed, — a function  which  required 
neither  a knowledge  of  positive  law  nor  the  dictates  of  natural 
sagacity. 

The  seed  of  our  present  form  of  Trial  by  Jury  may  be  dis- 
covered in  a law  of  Ethelred  II,  binding  the  sheriff  and  twelve 
principal  thanes  to  swear  that  they  would  neither  acquit  any 
criminal  nor  convict  any  innocent  person.  In  1176,  precise  enact- 
ment established  the  jury  system,  still  rude  and  imperfect,  as  the 
usual  mode  of  trial: 

‘The  justices,  who  represented  the  king’s  person,  were  to  make  inquiry  by  the  oaths 
of  twelve  knights,  or  other  lawful  men,  of  each  hundred,  together  with  the  four  men  from 
each  township,  of  all  murders,  robberies,  and  thefts,  and  of  all  who  had  harboured  such 
offenders,  since  the  king’s  (Henry  II)  accession  to  the  throne.’ 

The  jurors  were  essentially  witnesses  distinguished  from  other 
witnesses  only  by  customs  which  imposed  upon  them  the  obli- 
gation of  an  oath  and  regulated  their  number.  For  fifty  years 
yet  their  duties  were  to  present  offenders  for  trial  by  ordeal  or 
combat.  Under  Edward  I,  witnesses  acquainted  with  the  par- 
ticular fact  in  question  were  added  to  the  general  jury;  and 
later  these  became  simply  ‘witnesses,’  without  judicial  power, 


62 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


while  the  first  ceased  to  be  witnesses  and  became  only  judges 
of  the  testimony  given.  It  was  the  abolition  of  the  ordeal  sys- 
tem in  1216  which  led  the  way  to  the  establishment  of  what  is 
called  a ‘petty  jury’  for  the  final  trial  of  the  prisoner.  Cen- 
turies were  to  pass,  however,  before  the  complete  separation  of 
the  functions  of  juryman  and  witness  should  be  effected. 

The  ‘Meeting  of  Wise  Men’  no  longer  retained,  under  Alfred, 
its  character  of  a national  gathering,  as  when  the  Saxons  pre- 
served in  simplicity  their  Germanic  institutions.  Then  all  free- 
men, whether  owners  of  land  or  not,  composed  part  of  it.  Grad- 
ually, by  the  non-attendance  or  indifference  of  the  people,  only 
the  great  proprietors  were  left;  and,  without  the  formal  exclu- 
sion of  any  class  of  its  members,  it  shrunk  up  into  an  aristo- 
cratic assembly. 

After  the  Conquest,  in  the  reign  of  John,  the  national  council 
was  a gathering,  at  the  king’s  bidding,  of  all  who  held  their  lands 
directly  from  the  crown,  both  clerical  and  lay.  It  was  like  the 
‘ Meeting  of  the  Wise  Men,’  only  more  people  sat  in  it,  and  they 
were  the  king’s  feudal  vassals.  Those  who  were  entitled  to  be 
present,  could  only  be  present  themselves  — could  not  send  repre- 
sentatives. At  the  county  courts,  groups  of  men  sent  from  the 
various  parts  of  the  shire  represented,  in  the  transaction  of  busi- 
ness, the  whole  free  folk  of  the  shire.  Slowly  and  tentatively 
this  principle  was  applied  to  the  constitution  of  the  Great  Coun- 
cil. Henry  III  and  his  barons  alike  ordered  the  choice  of  ‘dis- 
creet knights’  from  every  county,  ‘to  meet  on  the  common 
business  of  the  realm.’  In  1246,  the  word  parliament  was  first 
used  as  the  name  of  the  council.  The  extension  of  electoral 
rights  to  the  freeholders  at  large  is  seen  in  the  king’s  writ  of 
1264,  sent  to  the  higher  clergy,  earls,  and  barons;  to  the  sheriffs, 
cities,  and  boroughs  throughout  England,  commanding  the  former 
three  to  come  in  person,  the  latter  to  send  representatives.  It 
was  long,  however,  before  the  chosen  deputies  were  admitted  to 
a share  in  deliberative  power.  In  1295,  Edward  gathered  at 
Westminster  an  assembly  that  was  in  every  sense  a national  Par- 
liament. It  straightway  fulfilled  the  sole  duty  of  a Parliament  in 
those  days, — voted  the  king  a supply.  Two  years  later  the  one 
thing  still  wanting  was  gained, — a solemn  acknowledgment  by 
the  king  that  it  alone  had  power  to  tax  the  nation.  The  idea  of 


GERMINATION  OF  MODERN  GOVERNMENT. 


63 


representation  has  risen.  ‘It  is  a most  just  law,’  says  Edward, 
•that  what  concerns  all  should  be  approved  of  by  all,  and  that 
common  dangers  should  be  met  by  measures  provided  in  common.’ 
In  Edward’s  reign,  the  barons  began  to  hold  their  deliberations 
privately.  The  knights  from  the  shires  and  the  deputies  from 
the  towns  formed  a second  chamber.  From  this  time,  therefore, 
dates  the  origin  of  the  House  of  Lords  and  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. 

The  rights  of  self-government,  of  free  speech  in  free  meeting, 
of  equal  justice  by  one’s  peers,  were  brought  safely  across  the 
ages  of  Norman  tyranny  by  the  traders  and  shopkeepers,  who 
alone,  unnoticed  and  despised  by  prelate  and  noble,  had  preserved 
the  full  tradition  of  Teutonic  liberty.  Henry  I,  promising  to 
govern  the  English  according  to  their  own  wishes,  with  wisdom 
and  moderation,  granted  them  a first  charter,  which,  though  of 
short  duration,  was  the  first  limitation  imposed  on  the  despotism 
of  the  Conquest.  A hundred  years  later,  the  barons  extorted 
from  King  John  the  glorious  and  powerful  Magna  Chart  a , — 
ever  after  the  basis  of  the  English  freedom,  the  corner-stone  of 
the  noble  edifice  of  the  Constitution.  Life,  liberty,  and  property 
were  protected.  No  man  could  henceforth  be  detained  in  prison 
without  trial.  No  man  would  have  to  buy  justice.  These  words, 
honestly  interpreted,  convey  an  ample  security  for  the  two  main 
rights  of  civil  society: 

4 No  freeman  shall  be  seized  or  imprisoned,  or  dispossessed,  or  outlawed,  or  in  any  way 
brought  to  ruin : we  will  not  go  against  any  man  nor  send  against  him,  save  by  legal  judg- 
ment of  his  peers  or  by  the  law  of  the  land.  To  no  man  will  we  sell,  to  no  man  will  we  deny 
or  delay,  justice  or  right.’ 

At  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  charters  were  so 
firmly  established  that  no  monarch  would  venture  to  disturb  them. 

Small  and  obscure  are  the  beginnings  of  great  political  institu- 
tions, and  unforeseen  are  the  tremendous  results  of  the  actor’s 
deeds,  who,  as  he  casts  the  seed  into  the  soil,  little  dreams  of  the 
mighty  and  perpetual  germination  it  will  disclose  in  after  days. 

Society. — By  Alfred’s  day,  it  was  assumed  that  no  man  could 
exist  without  dependence  upon  a superior.  The  ravages  and  long 
insecurity  of  the  Danish  wars  drove  the  freeholder  to  seek  pro- 
tection from  the  thane.  His  freehold  was  surrendered  to  be 
received  back  as  a fief,  laden  with  service  to  its  lord.  Gradually 


64 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


the  ‘lordless’  man  became  a sort  of  outlaw;  the  free  churl,  who 
had  held  his  land  straight  from  the  Maker  of  it,  sank  into  the 
villain,1  and  with  his  personal  freedom  went  his  share  in  the  gov- 
ernment. The  bulk  of  the  workmen  are  serfs.  In  a dialogue  of 
the  tenth  century,  written  for  popular  instruction,  the  ploughman 
says:  ‘I  labor  much.  I go  out  at  daybreak,  urging  the  oxen  to 
the  field,  and  I yoke  them  to  the  plough.  I am  bound  to  plough 
everyday  a full  acre  or  more.’  The  herdsman  says:  ‘When  the 
ploughman  separates  the  oxen,  I lead  them  to  the  meadows,  and 
all  night  I stand  watching  over  them  on  account  of  thieves;  and 
again  in  the  morning  I take  them  to  the  plough,  well-fed  and 
watered.’  And  the  shepherd:  ‘In  the  first  part  of  the  morning  I 
drive  my  sheep  to  their  pasture,  and  stand  over  them  in  heat  and 
cold  with  my  dogs,  lest  the  wolves  destroy  them.  I lead  them 
back  to  their  folds,  and  milk  them  twice  a day;  and  I move  their 
folds,  and  make  cheese  and  butter,  and  am  faithful  to  my  lord.’ 

The  military  oppression  of  the  Normans  levelled  all  degrees 
of  tenants  and  servants  into  a modified  slavery.  The  English 
lord  was  pushed  from  his  place  by  the  Norman  baron,  and  sank 
into  the  position  from  which  he  had  thrust  the  churl.  The 
peasant  — the  producer  — had  no  alternative  but  to  abide  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  in  one  spot,  and  was  held  to  be  only 
fulfilling  his  natural  destiny  when  he  toiled  without  hope  for 
the  privileged  consumer.  ‘ Why  should  villains  eat  beef  or  any 
dainty  food?’  asks  one  of  the  Norman  minstrels. 

The  social  organization  of  every  rural  part  of  England  rested 
on  the  manorial  system, — a division  of  the  land,  for  purposes  of 
cultivation  and  internal  order,  into  a number  of  large  estates. 
The  lord  of  the  manor,  instead  of  cultivating  the  estate  through 
his  own  bailiff,  at  length  found  it  more  convenient  and  profitable 
to  distribute  it  among  tenants  at  a given  rent,  payable  either  in 
money  or  in  produce.  This  habit  of  leasing  afforded  an  oppor- 
tunity by  which  the  aspiring  among  the  tenantry  could  rise  to 
a position  of  apparent  equality  with  their  older  masters.  The 
growing  use  of  the  words  ‘farm’  and  ‘farmer’  from  the  twelfth 
century  mark  the  initial  steps  of  a peasant  revolution.  The 

1 A peasant,  one  of  the  lowest  class  of  feudal  tenants;  a bondman,  and  later  a vile, 
wicked  person.  One  of  the  many  words  which  men  have  dragged  downwards  with  them- 
selves, and  made  more  or  less  partakers  of  their  own  fall. 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION  — TOWNS. 


65 


tenants  were  subject  to  many  exactions.  The  lord’s  bull  and 
boar  were  free,  under  the  conditions  of  tenure,  to  range  at  night 
through  their  standing  corn  and  grass;  and  their  sheep, — for 
they  were  permitted  to  acquire  and  hold  property  upon  suffer- 
ance,— were  always  to  be  folded  on  their  master’s  land.  That 
the  land  was  indifferently  farmed  we  may  well  believe,  when  we 
learn  that  the  highest  rent  was  seven  pence  an  acre,  and  the 
lowest  a farthing.  The  rise  of  the  farmer  class  was  soon  fol- 
lowed by  that  of  the  free  laborer.  Influences,  indeed,  had  long 
been  quietly  freeing  the  peasantry  from  their  local  bondage. 
Prior  to  the  Conquest,  pure  slavery  was  gradually  disappearing 
before  the  efforts  of  the  Church.  Subsequently  she  urged  eman- 
cipation, as  a mark  of  piety,  on  all  estates  but  her  own.  The 
fugitive  bondsman  found  freedom  in  chartered  towns,  where  a 
residence  of  one  year  and  a day  conferred  franchise.  The  pomp 
of  chivalry  and  the  cost  of  incessant  campaigns  drained  the  royal 
mid  baronial  purse;  and  the  sale  of  freedom  to  the  serf,  or  of 
exemption  from  services  to  the  villain,  afforded  an  easy  and 
tempting  mode  of  replenishment.  Thus,  by  a solemn  deed  in 
1302,  for  forty  marks,  4 Robert  Crul  and  Matilda  his  wife,  with 
all  his  offspring  begotten  and  to  be  begotten,  together  with  all 
his  goods  holden  and  to  be  holden,’  w^as  rendered  ‘forever  free 
and  quit  from  all  yoke  of  servitude.’ 

In  the  silent  growth  and  elevation  of  the  people,  the  boroughs 
led  the  way.  The  English  town  was  originally  a piece  of  the 
general  country,  where  people,  either  for  purposes  of  trade  or 
protection,  happened  to  cluster  more  closely  than  elsewhere.  It 
was  organized  and  governed  in  the  same  way  as  the  manors 
around  it, — justice  was  administered,  its  customary  services  ex- 
acted, its  annual  rent  collected,  by  the  officer  of  the  king,  noble, 
or  ecclesiastic,  to  whose  estate  it  belonged.  Its  inhabitants  were 
bound  to  reap  their  lord’s  corn  crops,  to  grind  at  his  mill,  to 
redeem  their  strayed  cattle  from  his  pound.  Its  dues  paid  and 
services  rendered,  however,  property  and  person  alike  were  se- 
cured against  arbitrary  seizure.  The  townsman’s  rights  were 
rigidly  defined  by  custom,  and  by  custom  were  constantly  widen- 
ing. By  disuse  or  forgetfulness,  services  would  disappear,  while 
privileges  and  immunities  were  being  for  the  most  part  purchased 
by  hard  bargaining.  At  Leicester,  for  instance,  one  of  the  chief 
5 


66 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


aims  of  its  burgesses  was  to  regain  their  old  English  practice  of 
compurgation,  for  which  had  been  substituted  the  foreign  trial 
by  duel.  Says  a charter  of  the  time: 

‘ It  chanced  that  two  kinsmen  . . . waged  a duel  about  a certain  piece  of  land,  con- 
cerning which  a dispute  had  arisen  between  them ; and  they  fought  from  the  first  to  the 
ninth  hour,  each  conquering  by  turns.  Then  one  of  them  fleeing  from  the  other  till  he 
came  to  a certain  little  pit,  as  he  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  pit,  and  was  about  to  fall  therein, 
his  kinsman  said  to  him,  “ Take  care  of  the  pit,  turn  back  lest  thou  shouldest  fall  into  it.” 
Thereat  so  much  clamor  and  noise  was  made  by  the  by-standers  and  those  who  were  sitting 
around,  that  the  Earl  heard  these  clamors  as  far  off  as  the  castle,  and  he  inquired  of  some 
how  it  was  there  was  such  a clamor,  and  answer  was  made  to  him  that  two  kinsmen  were 
fighting  about  a certain  piece  of  ground,  and  that  one  had  fled  till  he  reached  a certain  little 
pit,  and  that,  as  he  stood  over  the  pit  and  was  about  to  fall  into  it,  the  other  warned  him. 
Then  the  townsmen,  being  moved  with  pity,  made  a covenant  with  the  Earl  that  they  should 
give  him  three  pence  yearly  for  each  house  in  the  High  Street  that  had  a gable,  on  condition 
that  he  should  grant  to  them  that  the  twenty-four  jurors  who  were  in  Leicester  from  ancient 
times  should  from  that  time  forward  discuss  and  decide  all  pleas  they  might  have  among 
themselves.’ 

At  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  all  the  more  important 
towns  had  secured  freedom  of  trade,  of  justice,  and  of  govern- 
ment. Their  liberties  and  charters  served  as  models  and  in- 
centives to  the  smaller  communities  stru2r2rlino>  into  existence. 
While  the  tendency  at  first  seems  to  have  been  agricultural,  at 
the  Conquest  it  had  become  mercantile,  and  the  controlling  class 
was  the  merchant  guild.  Wealth  and  industry  developed  into 
dangerous  rivalry  a second  class,  composed  of  escaped  serfs,  of 
traders  without  lands,  of  the  artisans  and  the  poor.  Without 
share  in  the  right  and  regulation  of  trade,  their  struggles  for 
power  and  privilege  began  in  the  reign  of  the  first  Henry,  and 
their  turbulent  election  of  a London  mayor  in  1261  marks  their 
final  victory. 

In  the  tenth  century,  a man  wished  for  two  things, — not  to  be 
slain,  and  to  have  a good  leather  coat.  The  state  of  warfare  still 
contends  against  the  state  of  order.  The  right  of  aggrieved 
persons  to  interfere  with  the  sober  course  of  the  law  is  acknowl- 
edged even  by  Alfred: 

‘ We  also  command  that  the  man  who  knows  his  foe  to  be  home -sitting,  fight  not  before 
he  demand  justice  of  him.  If  he  have  such  power  that  he  can  beset  his  foe  and  besiege 
him  within,  let  him  keep  him  within  for  seven  days,  and  attack  him  not  if  he  will  remain 
within.’ 

There  are  so  many  pagan  Danes  and  other  disreputable  per- 
sons scattered  up  and  down  the  land,  that  society  must  protect 
itself  in  a summary  fashion: 

‘If  a stranger  or  foreigner  shall  wander  from  the  highway,  and  then  neither  call  out 
nor  sound  a horn,  he  is  to  be  taken  for  a thief  and  killed,  or  redeemed  by  fine.’ 


LAWLESSNESS  AND  BRUTALITY. 


67 


When  Henry  II,  succeeding  the  Norman  king,  ascended  the 
throne  in  1154,  he  found  his  kingdom  a prey  to  horrible  anarchy. 
The  royal  domains  were  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  menacing 
fortresses  garrisoned  by  resolute  soldiers  who  recognized  no 
authority  but  that  of  their  chiefs.  Within  three  years,  eleven 
hundred  of  these  castles,  the  haunts  of  robbers,  were  razed  to 
the  ground,  while  the  peasants  and  townspeople  applauded  the 
work  of  destruction.  He  may  be  truly  said  to  have  initiated  ‘ the 
rule  of  law.’  Ten  years  after  his  accession  the  principle  of 
pecuniary  compensation  for  crime  had,  for  the  most  part,  been 
superseded  by  criminal  laws,  administered  with  stern  severity. 
Yet  outrage  continues  to  be  the  constant  theme  of  legislation. 
In  the  reign  of  the  first  Edward,  every  man  was  bound  to  hold 
himself  in  readiness,  duly  armed,  for  the  king’s  service  or  the  hue 
and  cry  which  pursued  the  felon.  An  act  for  the  suppression  of 
crimes  directs  that, — 

‘ For  the  greater  security  of  the  people,  walled  towns  shall  keep  their  gates  shut  from 
sun-set  to  sun-rise;  and  none  shall  lodge  all  night  in  their  suburbs,  unless  his  host  shall 
answer  for  him.  All  towns  shall  be  kept  as  in  times  past,  with  a watch  all  night  at  each 
gate,  with  a number  of  men.’ 

Another,  after  reciting  the  commission  of  robberies,  murders,  and 
riots,  in  the  city  of  London,  enjoins: 

‘ That  none  be  found  in  the  streets,  either  with  spear  or  buckler,  after  the  curfew-bell 
rings  out,  except  they  be  great  lords,  or  other  persons  of  note;  also,  that  no  tavern,  either 
for  wine  or  ale,  be  kept  open  after  that  hour  on  forfeiture  of  forty  pence.’ 

Once,  during  this  reign,  a band  of  lesser  nobles  disguise  their 
way  into  a great  merchant  fair;  fire  every  booth,  rob  and  slaugh- 
ter the  merchants,  and  carry  the  booty  off  to  ships  lying  in  wait. 
Molten  streams  of  silver  and  gold,  says  the  tale  of  horror,  flowed 
down  the  gutters  to  the  sea.  Lawless  companies  of  club-men 
maintain  themselves  by  general  violence,  aid  the  country  nobles 
in  their  feuds,  wrest  money  and  goods  from  the  tradesmen. 
Under  a show  of  courtesy  the  bloodthirsty  instinct  breaks  out. 
Richard  of  the  Lion-heart  has  a lion’s  appetite.  Under  the  walls 
of  Acre  he  wants  some  pork.  There  being  none  to  be  had,  a 
young  Saracen  is  killed,  cooked,  salted,  and  served  him.  He  eats 
it  with  a relish,  and  desires  to  see  the  head  of  the  pig.  The  cook 
produces  it  trembling,  the  king  laughs,  and  says  the  army,  having- 
provisions  so  convenient,  has  nothing  to  fear  from  famine.  The 
town  taken,  he  has  thirty  of  the  most  noble  prisoners  beheaded* 


68 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


bids  his  cook  boil  the  heads  and  serve  one  to  each  of  the  ambas- 
sadors who  came  to  sue  for  their  pardon.  Thereupon  the  sixty 
thousand  prisoners  are  led  into  the  plain  for  execution. 

Theodore,  who  founded  the  English  Church,  denied  Christian 
burial  to  the  kidnapper,  and  prohibited  the  sale  of  children  by 
their  parents  after  the  age  of  seven.  The  murder  of  a slave, 
though  no  crime  in  the  eye  of  the  State,  became  a sin  for  which 
penance  was  due  to  the  Church.  Manumission  became  frequent 
in  wills,  as  a boon  to  the  souls  of  the  dead.  Usually  the  slave 
was  set  free  before  the  altar;  sometimes  at  the  spot  where  four 
roads  met,  and  there  bidden  go  whither  he  would.  In  the  more 
solemn  form,  his  master  took  him  by  the  hand  in  full  shire 
meeting,  showed  him  the  open  road  and  door,  and  gave  him  the 
lance  and  sword  of  the  freeman.  A hundred  years  after  the 
prohibition,  in  the  ninth  century,  of  the  slave-traffic  from  English 
ports,  men  and  women  are  said  to  have  been  bought  in  all  parts 
of  England  and  carried  to  Ireland  for  sale.  ‘You  might,’  says  a 
chronicler,  ‘have  seen  with  sorrow  long  files  of  young  people  of 
both  sexes  and  of  the  greatest  beauty  bound  with  ropes  and  daily 
exposed  for  sale.  . . . They  sold  in  this  manner  as  slaves  their 
own  children.’  Not  till  the  reign  of  Henry  II  was  it  finally  sup- 
pressed in  its  last  stronghold,  the  port  of  Bristol. 

A law  of  1285,  relating  to  highways,  directs: 

1 That  those  ways  shall  be  enlarged  where  bushes,  woods,  or  dykes  be,  where  men  may 
lurk,  so  that  there  be  neither  dyke,  tree,  nor  bush  within  two  hundred  feet  on  each  side  of 
those  roads,  great  trees  excepted.’ 

A provision  which  illustrates  at  once  the  social  and  physical  con- 
dition of  the  country  at  the  time.  The  roads  are  narrow  — from 
four  to  eight  feet  — and  of  difficult  passage.  A bishop,  journey- 
ing to  London,  is  obliged  to  rest  his  beasts  of  burden  on  alternate 
days  of  travel.  Returning,  he  accomplishes  the  first  day  only 
five  miles.  Travellers  ride  on  horseback,  and  convey  their  culin- 
ary wares  or  merchandise  in  pack-saddles.  The  dead,  the  invalid, 
ladies  of  rank,  are  carried  in  a liorse-litter , borne  by  horses  and 
mules,  sometimes  by  men.  Carts  are  the  carriages  of  the  nobil- 
ity, distinguished  from  the  common  description  by  ornament. 
Even  that  of  King  John  is  springless, — the  body  rests  upon  the 
axletree,  the  wheels  are  cut  from  solid  pieces  of  circular  wood, 
covered  ornamentally,  and  bound  round  with  a thick  wooden 


ARCHITECTURE  — THE  CAPITALIST. 


69 


tire.  For  obvious  reasons,  a solitary  journey  in  these  early  days 
will  be  a matter  of  grave  anxiety.  Friends  setting  out  from  the 
same  place,  or  strangers  becoming  acquainted  upon  the  road, 
join  in  parties  for  mutual  protection  and  cheer  through  the  semi- 
desert. 

The  houses  of  the  people  in  the  thirteenth  century  were  gen- 
erally of  one  story,  consisting  of  a hall  and  a bed-chamber.  The 
first  was  kitchen,  dining-room,  reception-room,  as  well  as  sleeping- 
apartment  for  strangers  and  visitors  indiscriminately;  the  second 
was  the  resort  of  the  female  portion  of  the  household.  The  door 
opened  outward,  and  was  left  open, — a sign  of  hospitality,  which 
even  in  turbulent  times  was  almost  boundless  between  those  who 
had  established  friendly  relations.  The  roof,  covered  with  oval 
tiles,  exhibited  two  ornamental  points.  Dwellings  of  the  opulent 
sometimes  had  upper  floors,  reached  by  an  external  staircase. 
The  upper  part  was  considered  the  place  of  greatest  security,  as 
it  could  be  entered  only  by  one  door,  which  was  approached  by 
a flight  of  steps,  and  hence  was  more  readily  defended.  The 
hall  was  generally  the  whole  height  of  the  house.  Adjacent  to 
it  was  the  stable,  in  which  the  servants,  if  any,  were  well  con- 
tent to  lodge.  Palaces  and  manor-houses  had  essentially  the 
same  arrangement, — a private  room  for  the  lord,  and  the  great 
hall  which  was  the  usual  living  apartment  for  the  whole  family, 
and  in  which  retainers  and  guests,  often  to  the  number  of  three 
or  four  hundred,  were  kennelled,  the  floor  being  strewn  with  dry 
rushes  in  winter,  and  with  hay  or  straw  in  summer. 

Already  the  Jew  was  a capitalist, — the  only  one  in  Europe. 
He  had  followed  William  from  Normandy.  Without  citizenship, 
absolutely  at  the  king’s  mercy,  he  was  the  engine  of  finance; 
and,  as  such,  compelled  the  kingly  regard.  Castle  and  cathe- 
dral alike  owed  their  existence  to  his  loans.  His  wealth  — 
wrung  from  him  by  torture  when  mild  entreaty  failed  — filled 
the  royal  exchequer  at  the  outbreak  of  war  or  revolt.  The 
‘Jews’  Houses’  were  almost  the  first  of  stone,  which  superseded 
the  mere  hovels  of  the  English  burghers.  John,  having  wrested 
from  them  a sum  equal  to  a year’s  revenue,  might  suffer  none  to 
plunder  them  save  himself.  Hated  by  the  people,  persecuted  at 
last  by  the  law,  forbidden  to  appear  in  the  street  without  the 
'Colored  tablet  which  distinguished  the  race,  their  long  agony 


70 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


ended  in  their  expulsion  from  the  realm  by  Edward.  Of  the 
sixteen  thousand  who  preferred  exile  to  apostasy,  many  were 
wrecked,  others  robbed  and  flung-  overboard.  From  that  time 
till  their  restoration  by  Cromwell,  no  Jew  touched  English  soil. 

Under  the  worst  of  rulers  it  is  ‘Merry  England.’  Of  indoor 
amusements,  the  most  attractive  to  high  and  low  is  gambling. 
So  universal  was  the  passion  in  the  twelfth  century,  that  in 
the  Crusades  the  kings  of  France  and  England  made  the  most 
stringent  regulations  to  restrict  it.  No  man  in  the  army  was 
to  play  for  money,  except  the  knights  and  the  clergy;  nor  were 
the  latter  to  lose  more  than  twenty  shillings  in  one  day.  The 
lower  orders  who  should  be  found  playing  without  the  permis- 
sion and  supervision  of  their  masters,  were  to  be  whipped;  and, 
if  mariners,  were  to  be  plunged  into  the  sea  on  three  successive 
mornings.  Love  of  hardy  sports,  so  characteristic  of  the  Eng- 
lish, is  not  of  modern  growth.  It  was  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant parts  of  popular  education  seven  centuries  ago.  Wrestling 
was  the  national  pastime.  The  sturdy  yeoman  wrestled  for 
prizes, — a ram  or  a bull,  a ring  or  a pipe  of  wine.  Foot-ball 
was  the  favorite  game.  In  the  Easter  holidays  they  had  river 
tournaments.  In  the  summer,  the  youths  exercised  themselves 
in  leaping,  archery,  stone-throwing,  slinging  javelins,  and  fight- 
ing with  bucklers.  The  sword-dance  of  the  Saxons,  descending 
to  their  successors,  held  an  honored  place  among  popular  sports. 
The  acrobat  went  about  to  market  and  fair,  circling  knives  and 
balls  adroitly  through  his  hands,  and  the  ‘musical  girls’  danced 
before  knight  and  peasant  as  the  daughter  of  Herodias  before 
Herod.  A very  ancient  and  popular  game  was  that  of  throwing" 
a peculiar  stick  at  cocks.  It  was  practised  especially  by  school- 
boys. Three  origins  of  it  have  been  given:  first,  that  in  the- 
Danish  wars,  the  Saxons  failed  to  surprise  a certain  city  in  con- 
sequence of  the  crowing  of  cocks,  and  had  therefore  a great 
hatred  of  that  bird;  second,  that  the  cocks  were  special  repre- 
sentatives of  Frenchmen,  with  whom  the  English  were  constantly 
at  war;  third,  that  they  were  connected  with  Peter’s  denial  of 
Christ.  Two  diversions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  however,  were  a 
pride  and  ornament,  the  theme  of  song,  the  object  of  law,  and 
the  business  of  life, — hunting  and  hawking.  A knight  seldom 


PLEASURES  — SUPERSTITIONS. 


71 


stirred  from  his  house  without  a falcon 1 on  his  wrist  or  a grey- 
hound at  his  feet.  Into  these  pastimes  the  clergy  rushed  with 
an  irrepressible  eagerness.  To  the  country  revel  came  the 
taborer,  the  bagpiper,  and  the  minstrel  — a privileged  wanderer. 
Music,  with  its  immemorial  talismanic  power  to  charm,  seems 
always  to  have  ranked  as  a favorite  accomplishment.  The  com- 
plaint of  a Scotch  abbot  in  1160  suggests  rather  amusingly  the 
innovations  it  was  making  in  the  devotional  customs  of  the 
Church : 

4 Since  all  types  and  figures  are  now  ceased,  why  so  many  organs  and  cymbals  in  our 
churches?  Why,  I say,  that  terrible  blowing  of  bellows  which  rather  imitates  noise  of 
thunder  than  the  sweet  harmony  of  voice?’ 

Again : 

4 One  restrains  his  breath,  another  breaks  his  breath,  and  a third  unaccountably  dilates 
his  voice.  Sometimes  (I  blush  to  say  it)  they  fall  and  quiver  like  the  neighing  of  horses ; at 
other  times  they  look  like  persons  in  the  agonies  of  death;  their  eyes  roll;  their  shoulders 
are  moved  upwards  and  downwards;  and  their  fingers  dance  to  every  note.’ 

Intellectually,  the  real  character  of  these  times  is  to  be  judged 
by  their  multitude  of  superstitions.  On  the  Continent,  in  particu- 
lar, credulity  was  habitual  and  universal.  The  west  of  Britain 
was  believed  to  be  inhabited  by  the  souls  of  the  dead.  In  a 
lake  in  Munster,  Ireland,  there  were  two  islands.  Into  the  first, 
death  could  never  enter;  but  age,  disease,  and  weariness  wrought 
upon  the  inhabitants  till  they  grew  tired  of  their  immortality, 
and  learned  to  look  upon  the  second  as  a haven  of  repose;  they 
launched  their  barks  upon  its  dark  waters,  touched  its  shore,  and 
were  at  rest.  The  three  companions  of  St.  Colman  were  a cock, 
which  announced  the  hour  of  devotion;  a mouse,  which  bit  the 
ear  of  the  drowsy  saint  till  he  rose;  and  a fly,  which,  if  in  the 
course  of  his  studies  his  thoughts  wandered,  or  he  was  called 
away,  alighted  on  the  line  where  he  had  left  off,  and  kept  the 
place.  In  the  Church  of  St.  Sabina  at  Rome  was  long  shown 
a ponderous  stone  which  the  devil  had  flung  at  St.  Dominic, 
vainly  hoping  to  crush  a head  that  was  shielded  by  the  guardian 
angel.  The  Gospel  of  St.  John  suspended  around  the  neck,  a 
rosary,  a relic  of  Christ  or  of  a saint, — any  of  the  thousand  talis- 
mans distributed  among  the  faithful,  would  baffle  the  utmost 
efforts  of  diabolical  malice.  The  more  terrible  phenomena  of 
nature,  unmoved  by  exorcisms  and  sprinklings,  were  invariably 


1 A bird  of  great  destructive  power,  trained  to  the  pursuit  of  other  birds. 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


attributed  to  the  intervention  of  spirits.  Such  phenomena  were 
by  the  clergy  frequently  identified  with  acts  of  rebellion  against 
themselves.  In  the  tenth  century,  the  opinion  everywhere  pre- 
vailed that  the  end  of  the  world  was  approaching.  Many  charters 
begin  with  these  words:  ‘As  the  world  is  now  drawing  to  its 
close.’  An  army  was  so  terrified  by  a solar  eclipse,  which  it 
conceived  to  announce  this  consummation,  as  to  disperse  hastily 
on  all  sides.  More  than  once  the  apparition  of  a comet  filled 
Europe  with  terror.  In  the  shadows  of  the  universal  ignorance, 
nothing  was  too  absurd  for  belief  and  practice.  In  France,  ani- 
mals were  accused  of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors,  tried,  and 
acquitted  or  convicted,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  law.  The  wild 
were  referred  to  ecclesiastical  tribunals;  the  domestic  to  the  civil. 
In  1120,  a French  bishop  pronounced  an  injunction  against  the 
caterpillars  and  field-mice  for  the  ravages  they  made  on  the 
crops.  If  after  three  days’  notice  the  condemned  did  not  ‘wither 
off  the  face  of  the  earth,’  they  were  solemnly  anathematized.  If, 
instead,  they  became  perversely  more  numerous  and  destructive, 
the  lawyers  ascribed  it,  not  to  any  injustice  of  the  sentence  nor 
to  the  inefficiency  of  the  court,  but  to  the  machinations  of  Satan. 
From  the  thirteenth  century  to  the  sixteenth,  there  are  not  a 
few  records  of  proceedings  in  criminal  courts  against  hogs  for 
devouring  children. 

About  the  twelfth  century,  the  brood  of  superstitions,  which 
had  once  consisted  for  the  most  part  in  wild  legends  of  fairies, 
mermaids,  giants,  dragons,  conflicts  in  which  the  Devil  took  a 
prominent  part  but  was  always  defeated,  or  illustrations  of  the 
boundless  efficacy  of  some  charm  or  relic, — began  to  assume  a 
darker  hue,  and  the  ages  of  religious  terrorism  commenced. 
Never  was  the  sense  of  Satanic  power  and  presence  more  pro- 
found and  universal.  In  Christian  art,  the  aspect  of  Christ 
became  less  engaging;  that  of  Satan  more  formidable:  the  Good 
Shepherd  disappeared,  the  miracles  of  mercy  declined,  and  were 
replaced  by  the  details  of  the  Passion  and  the  horrors  of  the 
Last  Judgment.  Now  it  was  that  the  modern  conception  of  a 
witch  — namely,  a woman  in  compact  with  Satan,  who  could 
exercise  the  miraculous  gift  at  pleasure,  and  who  at  night  was 
transported  through  the  air  to  the  Sabbath,  where  she  paid  her 
homage  to  the  Evil  One  — first  appeared.  Owing  in  part  to  its 


ENGLISH  CHURCH. 


73 


insular  position,  in  part  to  the  intense  political  life  which  from 
the  earliest  period  animated  its  people,  there  was  formed  in 
England  a self-reliant  type  of  character  which  was  essentially 
distinct  from  that  common  in  Europe,  averse  to  the  more  depress- 
ing* aspect  of  religion,  and  less  subject  to  its  morbid  fears.  In 
consequence,  the  darker  superstitions  which  prevailed  on  the 
Continent,  and  which  were  to  act  so  tragically  on  the  imagina- 
tions of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  had  not  here  arisen. 
Nevertheless,  as  will  presently  appear  in  our  sketch  of  historical 
method,  there  existed  a condition  of  thought  so  far  removed 
from  that  of  the  present  day  as  to  be  scarcely  conceivable.  It 
will  show  itself  in  literature  as  a controlling  love  of  the  marvel- 
lous; in  religion,  as  the  intellectual  basis  of  witchcraft. 

Religion. — When  the  island  was  yet  without  political  unity, 
a Greek  monk,  sent  from  Rome,  organized  an  episcopate,  divided 
the  land  into  parishes  representing  the  different  provinces  of  its 
disunited  state,  linked  them  all  to  Canterbury  as  ecclesiastical 
centre,  and  thus  founded  the  Church  of  England.  In  venera- 
tion of  the  source  of  light,  Anglo-Saxons  began  pilgrimages  to 
the  ‘Eternal  City,’  in  the  hope  that,  dying  there,  a more  ready 
acceptance  would  be  accorded  them  by  the  saints  in  Heaven. 
In  gratitude  they  established  a tax,  called  St.  Peter’s  penny,  for 
the  relief  of  pilgrims  and  the  education  of  the  clergy.  The 
claims  of  the  Roman  See,  based  as  here  upon  filial  regard,  were 
to  become  a tremendous  peril  alike  to  monarch  and  to  subject. 

As  Rome  was  the  queen  of  cities,  so,  as  the  chief  seat  of 
Christianity,  her  Church  was  naturally  held  to  be  the  first  of 
Churches,  and  her  bishop  first  of  bishops  — the  Pope.1  When 
the  capital  was  transferred  to  Constantinople,  and  the  Vandals 
had  dissolved  the  framework  of  Roman  society,  he  gradually 
became  the  chief  man  in  Italy,  indeed  in  the  wdiole  West.  But 
wealth  is  dangerous  to  simplicity,  and  power  to  moderation. 
From  being  a father  and  a counsellor  merely,  forgetting  humility, 
he  became  a schemer  and  a ruler.  Love  of  souls  was  gradually 
supplanted  by  love  of  empire.  The  evil  was  possible  to  the  sys- 
tem. Each  country  in  Christendom  was  mapped  out  into  an  all- 
embracing  territorial  organization,  in  which  the  priest  was  under 


Meaning  father , paiia,  Greek  nairas. 


74 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


the  bishop,  he  under  the  archbishop,  and  the  archbishop  in  turn 
responsible  to  the  pope,  who  thus  held  in  his  hand  the  converging 
reins  of  ecclesiastical  control.  While  the  prelates,  each  within 
his  respective  sphere,  were  encroaching  little  by  little  upon  the 
laity,  the  Church  of  Rome  was  forming  and  maturing  her  plans 
to  enthrall  both  the  national  churches  and  the  temporal  govern- 
ments. A prime  condition  of  conquest  is  a replete  exchequer. 
Covetousness  was  characteristic.  Gifts  by  the  rich  on  assuming 
the  cowl,  by  some  before  entering  upon  military  expeditions, 
bequests  by  many  in  the  terrors  of  dissolution ; the  commutation 
for  money  of  penance  imposed  upon  repentant  offenders, — were 
a few  of  the  various  sources  of  her  revenue.  No  atonement,  she 
taught,  could  be  so  acceptable  to  Heaven  as  liberal  donations  to 
its  earthly  delegates.  The  rich  widow  was  surrounded  by  a 
swarm  of  clerical  sycophants  who  addressed  her  in  terms  of 
endearment  and,  under  the  guise  of  piety,  lay  in  wait  for  a 
legacy.  A special  place,  it  was  said,  was  reserved  in  purgatorv 
for  those  who  had  been  slow  in  paying  their  tithes.  A man  who 
in  a contested  election  for  the  popedom  had  supported  the  wrong 
candidate,  was  placed  after  death  in  boiling  water.  The  bereft 
widow,  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  anguish,  was  told  that  he  who 
was  dearer  to  her  than  all  the  world  besides,  was  now  writhing  in 
the  flames  that  encircled  him,  and  could  be  relieved  only  by  a 
pecuniary  present.  Masterly  adaptation  of  means  to  ends.  The 
end  of  the  twelfth  century  saw  the  Church  at  the  zenith  of  terri- 
torial possession.  She  enjoyed  nearly  one-half  of  England,  and 
a still  greater  portion  in  some  countries  of  the  Continent.  To 
her  John  solemnly  resigned  his  crown,  and  humbly  received  it  as 
a fief.  But  landed  acquisitions  scarcely  contributed  so  much  to 
her  greatness  as  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  and  immunity.  Her 
spiritual  court,  claiming  a loftier  origin  than  the  civil,  acquired 
absolute  exemption  from  secular  authority,  and  ended  by  usurp- 
ing almost  the  whole  administration  of  justice.  Kings  were 
expected  to  obtain  its  sanction  as  a security  to  their  thrones,  and 
to  hold  those  thrones  by  compliance  with  its  demands.  It  could 
try  citizens,  but  ecclesiastics  were  amenable  to  it  only.  The 
mainspring  of  her  machinery  was  excommunication  and  interdict. 
The  former  was  equivalent  to  outlawry.  The  victim  was  shunned, 
as  one  infected  with  the  leprosy,  by  his  servants,  his  friends,  his 


CHURCH  OF  ROME  — MONASTICISM. 


75 

family.  Two  attendants  only  remained  with  an  excommunicated 
king  of  France,  and  these  threw  all  the  meats  that  passed  his 
table  into  the  fire.  By  the  latter  — inflicted  perhaps  to  revenge 
a wounded  pride- — a county  or  a kingdom  was  under  suspension 
of  religious  offices;  churches  were  closed,  bells  silent,  and  the 
dead  unburied.  She  also  derived  material  support  from  the  mul- 
titudinous monks,  who,  in  return  for  extensive  favors,  vied  with 
each  other  in  magnifying  the  papal  supremacy.  The  thirteenth 
century  was  the  noonday  of  her  predominance.  Rome  was  once 
more  the  Niobe  of  nations;  and  kings,  as  of  old,  paid  her  homage. 
Vast  sums  from  England  flowed  into  her  treasury,  carried  by 
pilgrims;  by  suitors  with  appeals  in  all  manner  of  disputes;  by 
prelates  going  thither  for  consecration  and  for  the  confirmation 
of  their  elections;  by  applicants  for  church  preferment,  which 
was  almost  exclusively  at  the  Pope’s  disposal,  and  must  be 
bought;  by  Italian  priests  who,  pasturing  on  the  richest  bene- 
fices, drew  an  annual  sum  far  exceeding  the  royal  revenue.  In 
1300,  Boniface  VIII,  straining  to  a higher  pitch  the  despotic 
pretensions  of  former  pontiffs,  is  said  to  have  appeared  at  a 
festival  dressed  in  imperial  habits,  with  two  swords  borne  before 
him,  emblems  of  his  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  sovereignty 
over  the  earth. 

As  the  Church  rose  in  splendor,  she  sank  in  vice.  All  her 
institutions  had  been  noble  in  their  first  years,  but  success  had 
ruined  them.  The  monastic  movement,  inspired  by  a strong 
religious  motive,  tended  to  soften  every  sentiment  of  pride,  to 
repress  all  worldly  desires,  to  make  preeminent  the  practice  of 
charity,  to  give  humility  a foremost  place  in  the  hierarchy  of 
virtues.  Every  monastery  was  a focus  wrhich  radiated  benevo- 
lence. By  the  monk,  savage  nobles  were  overawed,  the  poor  pro- 
tected, wayfarers  comforted.  Legend  tells  how  St.  Christopher 
planted  himself,  with  his  little  boat,  by  a bridgeless  stream,  to  ferry 
over  travellers.  Not  without  reward,  for  once,  embarking  on  a very 
stormy  and  dangerous  night,  at  the  voice  of  distress,  he  received 
Christ.  When  hideous  leprosy  extended  its  ravages  over  Europe, 
while  the  minds  of  men  were  filled  with  terror  by  its  contagion 
and  supposed  supernatural  character,  monks  flocked  in  multitudes 
to  serve  in  the  hospitals.  Sometimes,  the  legends  say,  the  leper 
was  in  a moment  transfigured,  and  he  who  came  in  mercy  to  the 


76 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


most  loathsome  of  mortals,  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  hi& 
Lord.  As  organized  later  by  St.  Benedict,  the  monastery  was 
the  asylum  of  peaceful  industry,  the  refuge  of  the  flying  peasant, 
the  retreat  of  the  timid,  the  abode  of  the  princely,  the  portal  to 
knowledge  and  dignity  for  the  inquisitive  and  ambitious,  a field  of 
civilizing  activity  to  the  ardent  and  philanthropic,  the  symbol  of 
moral  power  in  an  age  of  turbulence  and  war,  the  fountain  whence 
issued  far  and  wide  a constant  stream  of  missionaries, — often  the 
nucleus  of  a city,  where  had  been  gigantic  forests  and  inhos- 
pitable marshes.  In  the  tenth  century,  when  the  English  Church, 
inundated  by  the  Danes,  had  fallen  into  worldliness  and  ignorance, 
Dunstan  the  reformer  saw  in  vision  a tree  of  wondrous  height 
stretching  its  branches  over  Britain,  its  boughs  laden  with  count- 
less cowls.  In  the  revival  of  a stricter  monasticism,  he  fancied, 
lay  the  remedy  for  Church  abuses.  The  clergy  were  displaced 
by  monks,  bound  by  vows  to  a life  of  celibacy  and  religious 
exercise.  Freed  ere  long  by  the  popes  from  the  control  of  the 
bishops,  they  speedily  became  ascendant  in  the  Church,  and  so- 
continued  till  the  Reformation.  Parish  endowments  were  trans- 
ferred to  monasteries,  of  which  Dunstan  himself  established  forty- 
eight,  setting  an  example  widely  followed  in  every  quarter  of  the 
land.  Pious,  learned,  and  energetic  as  were  the  prelates  of  Will- 
iam’s appointment,  they  were  not  English.  In  language,  manner, 
and  sympathy,  they  were  thus  severed  from  the  lower  priesthood 
and  the  people;  and  the  whole  influence  of  the  Church  was  for 
the  moment  paralyzed.  In  the  twelfth  century  a new  spirit  of 
devotion  woke  the  slumber  of  the  religious  houses,  and  changed 
the  aspect  of  town  and  country.  Everywhere  men  banded  them- 
selves together  for  prayer,  hermits  flocked  to  the  woods,  noble 
and  churl  welcomed  the  austere  Cistercians,  a reformed  offshoot 
of  the  Benedictine  order.  Their  rule  was  one  of  the  most  severe 
mortification  and  self-denial.  Their  lives  were  spent  in  labor  and 
prayer,  and  their  one  frugal  daily  meal  was  eaten  in  silence.  They 
humbly  asked  for  grants  of  land  in  the  most  solitary  places,  where 
they  could  meditate  in  retirement,  amidst  desolate  moors  and  the 
wild  gorges  of  inaccessible  mountains.  A hundred  years  later, 
when  the  administration  of  forms  had  become  the  sole  occupation 
of  the  clergy,  came  the  Friars, — Dominicans  and  Franciscans,  to 
win  back  the  public  esteem  and  reanimate  a waning  religion. 


THE  MENDICANT  FRIARS. 


77 

They  called  the  wind  their  brother,  the  water  their  sister,  and 
poverty  their  bride.  Incapable  by  the  principle  of  their  foundation 
of  possessing  estates,  they  subsisted  on  alms  and  pious  remunera- 
tions. ‘You  need  no  little  mountains  to  lift  your  heads  to 
heaven,’  was  the  scornful  reply  of  Francis  to  a request  for  pil- 
lows. Only  the  sick  went  shod.  An  Oxford  Friar  found  a pair 
of  shoes  one  morning,  and  wore  them.  At  night  he  dreamed  that 
robbers  leaped  on  him,  with  shouts  of  ‘Kill,  kill ! ’ ‘I  am  a Friar,’ 
shrieked  the  terror-stricken  brother.  ‘You  lie,’ was  the  instant 
answer,  ‘for  you  go  shod.’  In  disproof  he  lifted  up  his  foot,  saw 
the  shoe,  and  in  an  agony  of  repentance  flung  the  pair  out  of  the 
window.  Says  a contemporary: 

‘The  Lord  added,  not  so  much  a new  order,  as  renewed  the  old,  raised  the  fallen, 
and  revived  religion,  now  almost  dead,  in  the  evening  of  the  world,  hastening  to  its  end, 
in  the  near  time  of  the  Son  of  Perdition.  . . . They  have  no  monasteries  or  churches,  no 
fields,  or  vines,  or  beasts,  or  houses,  or  lands,  or  even  where  they  may  lay  their  head. 
They  wear  no  furs  or  linen,  only  woolen  gowns  with  a hood;  no  head-coverings,  or 
cloaks,  or  mantles,  or  any  other  garments  have  they.  If  any  one  invite  them,  they  eat 
and  drink  what  is  set  before  them.  If  any  one,  in  charity,  give  them  anything,  they 
keep  nothing  of  it  to  the  morrow.1 

Self-sacrificing  love,  for  Christ,  was  the  sum  of  their  lives,  food 
and  shelter  their  reward.  The  recluse  of  the  cloister  was  ex- 
changed for  the  preacher.  As  the  older  orders  had  chosen  the 
country,  the  Friars  chose  the  town.  In  frocks  of  serge  and 
girdles  of  rope,  they  wandered  bare-foot  on  errands  of  salvation, 
fixed  themselves  in  haunts  where  fever  and  pestilence  festered, 
in  huts  of  mud  and  timber  mean  as  the  huts  around  them.  To 
the  burgher  and  artisan,  who  had  heard  the  mass-priest  in  an 
unknown  tongue,  spelling  out  what  instruction  they  might  from 
gorgeous  ritual  and  graven  wall,  their  preaching*,  fluent  and  famil- 
iar, was  a wonder  and  a delight.  Not  deviating  from  the  current 
faith,  they  professed  rather  to  teach  it  in  greater  purity,  while 
they  imputed  supineness  and  debasement  to  the  secular  clergv. 
They  addressed  the  crowd  in  the  public  streets,  with  fervid  appeal, 
rough  wit,  or  telling  anecdote,  and  administered  the  communion 
on  a portable  altar,  carrying  the  multitude  by  their  enthusiasm 
and  novelty.  Disinterested  sincerity  is  at  all  times  attractive  to 
the  popular  heart,  and,  when  associated  with  the  hopes  and  fears 
of  life,  is  irresistible.  These  Methodists  started  a revolution. 
There  will  be  another  such  five  hundred  years  hence.  Had  they 
been  as  faithful  to  their  mission  as  the  Wesleys  to  theirs,  it  had 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


78 

been  well.  Seeing  their  power  to  move  the  masses,  the  pontiffs 
accumulated  privileges  upon  them.  The  bishops  were  ordered  to 
secure  them  a hearty  reception.  They  were  exempted  from  epis- 
copal supervision;  were  permitted  to  preach  or  hear  confessions 
without  leave  of  the  ordinary,  to  accept  legacies,  to  inter  any  who 
desired  it  in  their  enclosure.  The  door  was  thus  open  to  wealth, 
and  wealth  brought  ruin.  Even  so  early  as  1243,  Matthew  Paris 
writes  of  them: 

‘It  is  only  twenty-four  years  since  they  built  their  first  houses  fn  England,  and  now 
they  raise  buildings  like  palaces,  and  show  their  boundless  wealth  by  making  them 
daily  more  sumptuous,  with  great  rooms  and  lofty  ceilings,  impudently  transgressing 
the  vows  of  poverty  which  are  the  very  basis  of  their  order.  If  a great  or  rich  man 
is  like  to  die,  they  take  care  to  crowd  in,  to  the  injury  and  slight  of  the  clergy,  that  they 
may  hunt  up  money,  extort  confessions,  and  make  secret  wills,  always  seeking  the  good 
of  their  order,  as  their  one  end.  They  have  got  it  believed  that  no  one  can  hope  to  be 
saved  if  he  do  not  follow  the  Dominicans  or  Franciscans.  They  are  restless  in  trying 
to  get  privileges;  to  get  the  ear  of  kings  and  princes,  to  be  chamberlains,  treasurers, 
bridesmen,  and  match-makers,  and  agents  of  papal  extortions.  In  their  preaching,  they 
either  flatter  or  abuse  without  bounds,  or  reveal  confessions,  or  gabble  nonsense.’ 

So  had  it  ever  been, — so,  under  a similar  constitution,  must 
it  ever  be.  Vast  societies  living  in  enforced  celibacy,  exercising 
an  unbounded  influence,  and  possessing  enormous  riches,  inevit- 
ably become  hot-beds  of  corruption,  when  the  zeal  that  created 
them  expires.  Monk,  friar,  clergy,  pope,  and  Church  reached 
ultimately  one  level.  ‘You  are  a worthy  man,  though  you  be  a 
priest,’  says  a female  speaker  in  a poem  of  the  times.  A bishop 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  while  consecrating  a church,  was  ad- 
dressed by  the  devil,  who  stood  behind  the  altar  in  a pontifical 
vestment:  ‘Cease  from  consecrating  the  church;  for  it  pertaineth 
to  my  jurisdiction,  since  it  is  built  from  the  fruits  of  usuries  and 
robberies.’  To  give  money  to  the  priests  was  the  chief  article 
of  the  moral  code,  the  surest  means  of  atoning  for  crime  and 
gaining  Paradise.  The  ecclesiastical  courts  were  perennial  foun- 
tains, feeding  the  ecclesiastical  coffers.  Instituted  to  visit  with 
temporal  penalties  the  breach  of  the  moral  law,  they  were  imple- 
ments of  mischief,  a public  scandal  and  oppression,  when  saints 
had  ceased  to  wield  them.  So  corrupt  were  both  priests  and 
monks,  that  an  English  bishop  had  to  forbid  those  of  his  diocese 
from  ‘ haunting  taverns,  gambling,  or  drinking,  and  from  rioting 
or  debauchery.’  The  common  degeneracy  was  the  normal  result 
of  the  profound  corruption  at  the  centre  of  the  Church  — the 
See  of  Rome.  Says  Dante,  addressing  the  popes: 


DISAFFECTION  OF  THE  LAITY. 


79 


‘Of  gold  and  silver  ye  have  made  your  god; 

Differing  wherein  from  an  idolater 

But  that  he  worships  one,  a hundred  ye?’ 

Four  of  them,  of  his  own  day,  he  locates  in  hell,  and  makes  the 
last  say: 

‘Under  my  head  are  dragged 
The  rest,  my  predecessors  in  the  guilt 
Of  simony.1  Stretched  at  their  length  they  lie.’ 

To  the  ambition  of  the  Papacy  a spirit  of  resistance,  especially 
in  England,  had  not  been  wanting.  William  the  Conqueror, 
asserting  the  royal  supremacy,  had  sternly  refused  to  do  fealty  for 
his  throne,  and  exacted  homage  from  bishops  as  from  barons. 
While  the  effect  of  his  policy  had  been  to  weld  the  English 
Church  more  firmly  with  Rome  — a dependence  from  which  it 
had  hitherto  been  preserved  by  its  insular  position  — he  had 
vigorously  maintained  the  subjection  of  the  ecclesiastical  to  the 
civil.  Henry  II,  vindicating  the  authority  of  the  state,  had  re- 
quired that  every  priest  degraded  for  his  misdeeds  should  be 
given  up  to  the  civil  tribunals.  Edward  I had  compelled  the 
clergy  to  pay  taxes  and  forbidden  bequests  to  any  religious 
bodies  without  the  king’s  license.  Pillaged  by  the  pope  upon 
every  slight  pretence,  without  law  and  without  redress,  chafed 
by  the  immunities  of  the  mendicant  orders,  the  clergy  came  to 
regard  their  once  paternal  monarch  as  an  arbitrary  oppressor. 
The  venality  and  avarice  of  pope,  clergy,  and  mendicants,  were 
sapping  the  ancient  reverence  of  the  people  for  each.  Among 
the  laity,  a spirit  of  inveterate  hatred  had  grown  up,  not  only 
towards  the  papal  tyranny,  but  the  whole  ecclesiastical  system. 
It  was  complained  that  English  money  was  pouring  into  Rome; 
that  the  best  livings  were  given  by  the  Roman  See  to  non-resi- 
dent strangers;  that  the  clergy,  being  judged  only  by  the  clergy, 
abandoned  themselves  to  their  vices,  and  abused  their  state  of 
immunity.  In  the  first  years  of  the  reign  of  Henry  III,  a hundred 
murders  were  committed  by  priests  then  alive.  Walter  Map,  a 
bright  man  of  the  world,  with  a high  purpose  in  his  life,  had 
personified  the  prevalent  corruption  under  the  assumed  name 
of  a gluttonous  dignitary, — Bishop  Golias,2  who  confesses  the 
levity  of  his  mind,  its  lustful  desires;  recalls  the  tavern  he  has 
never  scorned,  nor  will  till  the  angels  sing  his  requiem;  images 

3 Buying  or  selling  ecclesiastical  preferment.  2 From  gula , the  gullet. 


1 


80 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


the  heavens  opening’  upon  him  as  he  lies  intoxicated,  too  weak 
to  hold  the  wine  cup  he  has  put  to  his  lips,  so  dying  in  his 
shame:  ‘What  1 set  before  me  is  to  die  in  a tavern;  let  there 
be  wine  put  to  my  mouth  when  I am  dying,  that  the  choirs  of 
the  angels  when  they  come  may  say,  “The  grace  of  God  be  on 
this  bibber  ! ” ’ Golias’  poetry  became  a fashion,  and  the  earnest 
man  of  genius  had  plenty  of  co-laborers. 

We  must  think  of  these  things  if  we  would  understand  the 
deep  union  that  subsists  between  literature  and  religion,  if  we 
would  comprehend  the  signs  of  the  times  and  the  voices  of  the 
future,  or  interpret  the  countless  crowd  of  quaint  and  often 
beautiful  legends  which,  while  they  witness  to  the  activity  of 
the  time,  reveal,  better  than  decrees  of  councils,  what  was  real- 
ized in  the  imagination  or  enshrined  in  the  heart. 

We  must  think  of  them,  too,  if  we  would  understand  that 
grand  awakening  of  reason  and  conscience  which  is  the  Refor- 
mation. Every  great  change  has  its  root  in  the  soul,  long  pre- 
paring, far  back  in  the  national  soil.  Already  have  we  had 
premonitory  throes  of  the  moral  earthquake.  We  shall  see  the 
storm  gather  and  pass,  once  and  again,  without  breaking.  The 
discontent  will  spread.  The  welling  spring,  despite  the  efforts 
to  repress  it,  will  bubble  and  leap,  till  its  surplus  overflows, 
bursting  asunder  its  constraint.  While  men  of  low  birth  and 
low  estate  are  stealing  by  night  along  the  lanes  and  alleys  of 
London,  carrying  some  dear  treasure  of  books  at  the  peril  of 
their  lives,  the  finger  that  crawls  around  the  dial  plate  will 
touch  the  hour,  and  the  mighty  fabric  of  iniquity  will  be  shivered 
into  ruins. 

But  amid  the  sins  and  failings  of  the  Church,  let  us  not  for- 
get the  priceless  blessings  she  bestowed  upon  mankind.  The 
inundations  of  barbarian  invasion  left  her  a virgin  soil,  and  made 
her  for  a long  period  the  chief  and  indeed  the  sole  centre  of 
civilization, — the  one  mighty  witness  for  light  in  an  age  of  dark- 
ness, for  order  in  an  age  of  lawlessness,  for  personal  holiness  in 
an  epoch  of  licentious  rage. 

She  suppressed  the  bloody  and  imbruting  games  of  the  amphi- 
theatre, discouraged  the  enslavement  of  prisoners,  redeemed  cap- 
tives from  servitude,  established  slowly  the  international  prin- 
ciple that  no  Christian  prisoners  should  be  reduced  to  slavery; 


REDEEMING  EXCELLENCES. 


81 


created  a new  warrior  ideal, — the  ideal  knight  of  the  Crusades 
and  chivalry,  wedding  the  Christian  virtues  of  humility  and  ten- 
derness with  the  natural  graces  of  courtesy  and  strength,  rarely 
or  never  perfectly  realized,  yet  the  type  and  model  of  warlike 
excellence  to  which  many  generations  aspired. 

She  imparted  a moral  dignity  to  the  servile  class,  by  intro- 
ducing into  the  ideal  type  of  morals  the  servile  virtues  of  humil- 
ity, obedience,  gentleness,  patience,  resignation;  and  by  associ- 
ating poverty  and  labor  with  the  monastic  life  so  profoundly 
revered.  When  men,  awed  and  attracted  by  reports  of  the 
sanctity  and  miracles  of  some  illustrious  saint,  made  pilgrimages 
to  behold  him,  and  found  him  in  peasant’s  garb,  with  a scythe  on 
his  shoulder,  sharing  and  superintending  the  work  of  the  farm, 
or  sitting  in  a small  attic  mending  lamps,  they  could  hardly  fail 
to  return  with  an  increased  sense  of  the  dignity  of  toil. 

By  inclining  the  moral  type  to  the  servile  position,  she  gave 
an  unexampled  impetus  to  the  movement  of  enfranchisement. 
The  multitude  of  slaves  who  embraced  the  new  faith  was  one  of 
the  reproaches  of  the  Pagans.  The  first  and  grandest  edifice  of 
Byzantine  architecture  in  Italy  was  dedicated  by  Justinian  to  the 
memory  of  a martyred  slave.  Manumission,  though  not  pro- 
claimed a matter  of  duty  or  necessity,  was  always  regarded  as 
one  of  the  most  acceptable  expiations  of  sin.  Clergy  and  laity 
freed  their  slaves  as  an  act  of  piety.  It  became  customary  to  do 
so  on  occasions  of  national  or  personal  thanksgiving,  on  recovery 
from  sickness,  on  the  birth  of  a child,  at  the  hour  of  death,  in 
testamentary  bequests.  In  the  thirteenth  century,  when  there 
were  no  slaves  to  emancipate  in  France,  caged  pigeons  were 
released  on  ecclesiastical  festivals,  in  memory  of  the  ancient 
charity,  and  that  prisoners  might  still  be  freed  in  the  name  of 
Christ. 

None  of  her  achievements  are  more  truly  great  than  those  she 
effected  in  the  sphere  of  charity.  For  the  first  time  in  history, 
she  inspired  thousands  to  devote  their  entire  lives,  through  sacri- 
fice and  danger,  to  the  single  object  of  assuaging  the  sufferings 
of  humanity.  Uniting  the  idea  of  supreme  goodness  with  that 
of  active  and  constant  benevolence,  she  covered  the  globe  with 
institutions  of  mercy  unknown  to  pagan  Rome  and  Greece. 
Through  disastrous  eclipse  and  wintry  night,  we  may  trace  the 
6 


82 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


subduing  influence  of  her  spell,  blending  strangely  with  every 
excess  of  violence  and  every  outburst  of  superstition.  Of  an 
Irish  chieftain  — the  most  ferocious  that  ever  defied  the  English 
power  — it  is  related,  amid  a legion  of  horrible  crimes,  that,  ‘sit- 
ting at  meat,  before  he  put  one  morsel  into  his  mouth,  he  would 
slice  a portion  above  the  daily  alms,  and  send  it  to  some  beggar 
at  the  gate,  saying  it  was  meet  to  serve  Christ  first.’ 

The  monastic  bodies  that  everywhere  arose,  were  an  invalu- 
able counterpoise  to  military  violence;  pioneers  in  most  forms  of 
peaceful  labor;  green  spots  in  a wilderness  of  rapine  and  tumult, 
where  the  feeble  and  persecuted  could  find  refuge.  As  secure 
repositories  for  books,  when  libraries  were  almost  unknown,  they 
bridged  the  chaos  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  linked  the  two  periods 
of  ancient  and  modern  civilization. 

The  Church  peopled  the  imagination  with  forms  of  tender 
beauty  and  gentle  pathos,  which  — more  than  any  dogmatic  teach- 
ing— softened  and  transformed  the  character,  till  it  learned  to 
realize  the  sanctity  of  weakness  and  the  majesty  of  compassion. 
The  lowliness  and  sorrow  of  her  Founder,  the  grace  of  His  person, 
the  agonies  of  Gethsemane  or  of  Calvary,  the  gentleness  of  the 
Virgin  Mother,  are  the  pictures  which,  for  eighteen  hundred  years, 
have  inspired  the  hearts  of  men  with  an  impassioned  love,  formed 
the  governing  ideals  of  the  rudest  and  most  ignorant,  furnished 
the  highest  patterns  of  virtue  and  the  strongest  incentives  to  its 
practice.  Here,  in  the  character  and  example  of  the  crucified 
Nazarene,  Christianity  finds  an  enduring  principle  of  regenera- 
tion, by  which,  though  shrouded  by  disastrous  eclipse  or  dimmed 
bypassing  mist,  her  light  is  never  quenched,— by  which,  when 
luxury,  ambition,  worldliness  and  vice  have  wounded  her  well- 
nigh  to  death,  she  has  renewed  her  strength  like  the  eagle,  has 
run  and  not  been  weary,  has  walked  and  not  been  faint.  So  has 
her  mightiest  apology,  from  age  to  age,  been  lives  of  holiness 
and  fidelity;  and  never,  though  she  seemed  to  be  dying,  has  she 
lacked  such.  Side  by  side  with  those  who  lived  and  schemed  in 
ecclesiastical  politics  as  their  chosen  element,  were  men  to  whom 
worldly  honors  were  indifferent, — to  whose  meekness  and  self- 
denial,  more  than  to  diadem,  tiara,  sword,  or  logic,  she  owes  her 
empire  over  the  human  heart. 

Learning. — From  the  age  of  Augustus,  Latin  and  Greek 


LOW  STATE  OF  LEARNING. 


83 

learning  which  we  call  ancient  or  classical,  sensibly  declined,  first 
by  organic  decay;  and  its  downfall,  begun  by  disease,  was  acceler- 
ated by  violence.  Libraries  were  destroyed,  schools  closed,  and 
intellectual  energy  of  a secular  kind  almost  ceased,  in  the  irrup- 
tion of  the  Northern  barbarians,  who  gloried  in  their  original 
rudeness,  and  viewed  with  disdain  arts  that  had  neither  preserved 
their  cultivators  from  degeneracy  nor  raised  them  from  servitude. 

A collateral  cause  of  this  prostration  was  the  neglect,  by  the 
Christian  Church,  of  Pagan  literature.  For  the  most  part,  the 
study  of  the  Latin  classics  was  positively  discouraged:  The 

writers,  it  was  believed,  were  burning  in  hell.  When  a monk, 
under  the  discipline  of  silence,  desired  to  ask  for  Virgil,  Horace, 
or  other  Gentile  author,  he  was  wont  to  signify  his  wish  by 
scratching  his  ear  like  a dog,  to  which  animal  it  was  thought  the 
Pagans  might  properly  be  compared. 

The  human  intellect,  sinking  deeper  every  age  into  stupidity 
and  superstition,  reached  its  lowest  point  of  depression  about  the 
middle  of  the  eleventh  century.  On  the  survey  of  society,  no 
circumstance  is  so  prominent  as  the  depth  of  ignorance  in  which 
it  was  immersed.  It  was  rare  for  a layman,  of  whatever  rank,  to 
know  how  to  sign  his  name.  Contracts  were  made  verbally. 
The  royal  charters,  instead  of  the  names  of  the  kings,  sometimes 
exhibit  their  mark  — the  cross.  In  England,  Alfred  declares  that 
he  could  not  recollect  a single  priest  who,  at  his  accession,  under- 
stood the  common  prayers,  or  could  render  a Latin  sentence  into 
English. 

The  darkness  which  reigned  far  and  wide  was  rendered  un- 
avoidable, among  other  causes,  by  the  scarcity  of  books,  which  — 
as  they  were  in  manuscript  form,  and  written  or  copied  with 
cost,  labor,  and  delay  — could  be  procured  only  at  an  immense 
price.  In  855,  a French  abbot  sent  two  of  his  monks  to  the 
Pope,  to  beg  a copy  of  Cicero’s  De  Orcitore , of  Quintilian’s  Insti- 
tutes, and  some  others;  ‘for,  although  we  have  part  of  these 
books,  yet  there  is  no  whole  or  complete  copy  of  them  in  all 
France.’  In  Spain  at  the  beginning  of  the  tenth  century  one 
and  the  same  copy  of  the  Bible  often  served  different  monas- 
teries. In  1299,  the  bishop  of  Winchester,  borrowing  a copy  of 
the  Bible  with  marginal  notes,  gives  a solemn  bond  for  due 
return  of  the  loan.  A book  donated  to  a religious  house  was 


84 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


believed  to  merit  eternal  salvation,  and  was  offered  on  the  altar 
with  great  ceremony.  Sometimes  a book  was  given  to  a private 
party,  with  the  reservation,  ‘Pray  for  my  soul.’  When  a book 
was  bought,  persons  of  consequence  and  character  were  assem- 
bled to  make  formal  record  that  they  were  present  on  the  occa- 
sion. It  was  common  to  lend  money  on  the  deposit  of  a book. 
In  the  universities  were  chests  for  the  reception  of  books  so 
•deposited.  Bede  records  that  Benedict  sold  a volume  to  his 
sovereign  Alfred  for  eight  hides  of  land  — about  eight  hundred 
acres. 

Moreover,  when  Latin  ceased  to  be  a living  tongue,  the  whole 
treasury  of  knowledge  was  locked  up  from  the  eyes  of  the  peo- 
ple. In  this  linguistic  corpse  were  sealed  the  Scriptures,  the 
liturgy,  and  the  teachings  of  the  Christian  Fathers,  and  there 
they  were  tenaciously  held.  Through  this  venerable  medium,  as 
a learned  language,  the  Church  of  Rome  stood  in  an  attitude 
strictly  European,  enabled  to  maintain  a general  international 
relation.  Its  prevalence  was  the  condition  of  her  unity,  and 
therefore  of  her  power.  Thus,  intent  upon  her  own  emoluments 
and  temporalities,  by  guarding  from  the  unlearned  vulgar  this 
key  to  erudition,  she  was  yet  the  sole  hope  for  literature.  Learn- 
ing was  confined  almost  wholly  to  the  ecclesiastical  order.  Manu- 
scripts found  secure  repositories  in  the  abbeys,  which  floated 
through  the  storms  of  war  and  conquest,  like  the  Ark  upon  the 
waves  of  the  flood;  in  the  midst  of  violence  remaining  inviolate, 
through  the  awful  reverence  which  surrounded  them.  The  mon- 
astery  became  the  one  sphere  of  intellectual  labor.  Here  with  no 
craving  for  human  fame,  were  composed  the  sermons  and  de- 
fences of  mediaeval  faith,  and  the  voluminous  Lives  of  Saints  — 
heroic  patterns  of  excellence  which  each  Christian  within  his  own 
limits  was  endeavoring  to  realize.  Here  the  monkish  scholar,  his 
hopes  fixed  upon  the  pardon  of  his  sins  and  the  rewards  of  the 
unseen  life,  pursued  his  studies  in  a spirit  which  has  now  almost 
faded  from  the  world.  In  the  deep  calm  and  chilly  barrenness  of 
the  Scriptorium  — what  the  printing-office  is  to  us  — might  be 
seen  the  sombre  figures  of  the  tonsured  workmen,  whose  task  it 
was,  seated  at  the  rude  desks  or  tables,  to  copy  and  adorn,  letter 
by  letter,  point  by  point,  the  precious  manuscripts  that  filled  the 
wooden  chests  ranged  around  the  naked  stone  walls.  With  pen- 


GRADUAL  RENEWAL — UNIVERSITIES. 


85 


cil  of  hair,  pen  of  reed  or  quill,  and  ink  of  many-hued  splendors, 
the  artist  laid  on  colors  and  produced  designs  which  for  richness 
and  beauty  command  our  admiration;  on  jjapyrus  or  parchment, 
writing  the  headings  in  bright  red;  forming  the  initial  letter  of 
a chapter  with  a brilliant  tracery,  in  scarlet  and  gold  and  blue 
lace-work,  of  intermingled  flowers  and  birds;  tracing  in  black 
the  thick  perpendicular  strokes  of  the  text-hand;  then  when  the 
book  is  finished  — which  may  be  the  work  of  years  if  the  decora- 
tions are  minute  and  profuse,  painting  the  title  in  scarlet,  with 
the  name  of  the  copyist  in  colors  at  the  foot  of  the  last  page, 
and  a marginal  embroidery  of  angelic  and  human  figures,  birds, 
beasts  and  fishes,  flowers,  shells  and  leaves. 

But  as  in  the  natural  world  every  night  brightens  into  a new 
morning,  so  in  the  spiritual  the  sun  of  science,  having  reached  its 
nadir  of  decline,  begins  its  reascension  to  the  zenith,  throwing- 
out  many  premonitory  gleams  of  light  ere  the  dawn  reddens  into 
the  lustre  of  day. 

The  leading  circumstances  in  the  gradual  renewal  of  European 
thought  are  the  study  of  civil  law,  presaging  progress  in  the  sci- 
ence of  government;  the  development  of  modern  languages,  with 
its  taste  for  poetry  and  its  swarm  of  lay  poets;  the  cultivation,  in 
the  twelfth  century,  of  Latin  classics,  quotations  from  which,  how- 
ever, during  the  Dark  Ages,  were  hardly  to  be  called  unusual; 
the  partial  restoration  of  Greek  literature  — mathematical,  physi- 
cal, and  metaphysical,  which,  with  the  exception  of  scattered 
instances  where  some  ‘petty  patristic  treatise’  or  later  commenta- 
tor on  Aristotle  was  rendered  into  Latin,  had  been  almost  entirely 
forgotten  within  the  pale  of  the  Romish  Church,  but  now  in  the 
eleventh  century,  imported  across  the  Pyrenees  into  France  from 
the  Arab  conquerors  of  Spain,  glimmered  with  pulsation  of  — 
‘That  earlier  dawn 

Whose  glimpses  are  again  withdrawn, 

As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again.’ 

Lastly,  as  the  special  mark  of  that  new  fervor  of  study  which 
sprang  up  in  the  West  from  its  contact  with  the  more  civilized 
East, — the  institution  of  universities. 

From  an  early  period,  in  England  as  well  as  elsewhere,  there 
were  schools,  though  in  general  confined  to  the  cathedrals  and 
monasteries,  and  designed  exclusively  for  religious  purposes. 


86 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD — THE  LITERATURE. 


Xor  is  it  to  be  presumed  that  the  laity,  though  excluded,  as  a 
rule,  from  the  benefits  of  a liberal  training,  were  left  wholly  with- 
out the  means  of  obtaining  some  elementary  instruction.  Canter- 
bury,  Yarrow,  and  York  commemorate  the  golden  age  of  Old 
English  scholarship.  Alcuin  was  called  from  the  last  to  the  court 
of  Charlemagne,  to  assist  him  in  the  educational  reform  of  France. 
In  a letter  to  his  patron  he  enumerates,  in  the  fantastic  rhetoric 
of  the  period,  the  branches  in  which  he  instructed  his  pupils  at 
Paris: 

4 To  some  I administer  the  honey  of  the  sacred  writings ; others  I try  to  inebriate 
with  the  wine  of  the  ancient  classics.  I begin  the  nourishment  of  some  with  the  apples 
of  grammatical  subtlety.  I strive  to  illuminate  many  by  the  arrangement  of  the  stars, 
as  from  the  painted  roof  of  a lofty  palace.’ 

That  is,  Grammar , Greek  and  Latin , Astronomy  and  Theology . 
Here  is  a specimen  of  the  literary  conversations  of  the  palace 
school : 

4 What  is  writing?— The  guardian  of  History.  What  is  speech?— The  interpreter  of 
the  soul.  What  is  it  that  gives  birth  to  speech?— The  tongue.  What  is  the  tongue?  — 
The  whip  of  the  air.  What  is  air?— The  preserver  of  life.  What  is  life?— A joy  for  the 
happy,  a pain  for  the  miserable,  the  expectation  of  death.  What  is  death?— An  inevi- 
table event,  an  uncertain  voyage,  a subject  of  tears  for  the  living,  the  confirmation  of 
testaments,  the  robber  of  men.  . . . What  is  heaven? — A moving  sphere,  an  immense 
vault.  What  is  light?— The  torch  of  all  things.  What  is  the  day?— A call  to  labor. 
What  is  the  sun?— The  splendor  of  the  universe,  the  beauty  of  the  firmament,  the  grace 
of  nature,  the  glory  of  the  day,  the  distributor  of  the  hours.  . . . What  is  friendship?  — 
The  similarity  of  souls.  . . . 

4 As  you  are  a youth  of  good  disposition,  and  endowed  with  natural  capacity,  I will 
put  to  you  several  other  unusual  questions : endeavor  to  solve  them.— I will  do  my  best ; 
if  I make  mistakes,  you  must  correct  them.  I shall  do  as  you  desire.  Some  one  who  is 
unknown  to  me  has  conversed  with  me,  having  no  tongue  and  no  voice;  he  was  not 
before,  he  will  not  be  hereafter,  and  I neither  heard  nor  knew  him.  What  means  this? 
— Perhaps  a dream  moved  you,  master?  Exactly  so,  my  son.  Still  another  one.  I have 
seen  the  dead  engender  the  living,  and  the  dead  consumed  by  the  breath  of  the  living. 
— Fire  was  born  from  the  rubbing  of  branches,  and  it  consumed  the  branches.’ 

Such  are  the  giants  of  a generation  — glimmering  lights  that, 
hardly  breaking  the  leaden  cloud  of  ignorance,  owe  much  of  their 
distinction  to  the  surrounding  gloom.  The  studies  pursued  at 
York,  the  same  writer  informs  us,  comprehended,  besides  gram- 
mar, rhetoric,  and  poetry, — 

4 The  harmony  of  the  sky,  the  labor  of  the  sun  and  moon,  the  five  zones,  the  seven 
wandering  planets;  the  laws,  risings,  and  settings  of  the  stars,  and  the  aerial  motions 
of  the  sea;  earthquakes;  the  nature  of  man,  cattle,  birds,  and  wild  beasts,  with  their 
various  kinds  and  forms;  and  the  sacred  Scriptures.’ 

In  short,  a long  established  division  of  literary  and  scientific 
knowledge  was  the  Trivium , embracing  Grammar,  Rhetoric,  and 


PRIMITIVE  OXFORD. 


87 


Logic;  and  Quadrivium , embracing  Music,  Arithmetic,  Geom- 
etry, and  Astronomy;  all  of  which  were  referred  to  theology,  and 
that  in  the  narrowest  manner.  To  be  perfect  in  the  three  former 
was  a rare  accomplishment;  and  scarcely  any  one  mastered  the 
latter  four.  John  of  Salisbury,  writing  in  the  twelfth  century, 
when  the  simplicity  of  this  arrangement  had  been  outgrown,  says: 

‘ The  Trivium  and  the  Quadrivium  were  so  much  admired  by  our  ancestors  in  former 
ages,  that  they  imagined  they  comprehended  all  wisdom  and  learning,  and  were  suffi- 
cient for  the  solution  of  all  questions  and  the  removing  of  all  difficulties;  for  whoever 
understood  the  Trivium  could  explain  all  manner  of  books  without  a teacher ; but  he 
who  was  farther  advanced,  and  was  master  also  of  Quadrivium,  could  answer  all  ques- 
tions and  unfold  all  the  secrets  of  nature.1 

But  in  the  twelfth  century,  the  older  educational  foundations 
burst  into  the  larger,  freer  life  of  the  universities,  whose  demo- 
cratic spirit  threatened  feudalism,  and  whose  intellectual  spirit 
threatened  the  Church,  though  to  outer  seeming  they  were  eccle- 
siastical bodies.  None  of  these  grew  so  early  into  fame  as  that 
of  Paris,  unrivalled  for  theological  discussion.  Here  the  rational- 
ism of  Abelard,  the  knight-errant  of  philosophy,  drew  down  the 
menaces  of  councils  and  the  thunders  of  Rome.  Said  the  Coun- 
cil of  Sens  in  1140: 

‘ He  makes  void  the  whole  Christian  faith  by  attempting  to  comprehend  the  nature 
of  God  through  human  reason.  He  ascends  up  into  Heaven;  he  goes  down  into  hell. 
Nothing  can  elude  him,  either  in  the  height  above  or  in  the  nethermost  depths.  His 
branches  spread  over  the  whole  earth.  He  boasts  that  he  has  disciples  in  Rome  itself, 
even  in  the  College  of  Cardinals.  He  draws  the  whole  earth  after  him.  It  is  time, 
therefore,  to  silence  him  by  apostolic  authority.1 

So  great  was  the  influx  of  his  disciples,  that  the  boundaries  of 
the  city  were  enlarged.  When  he  retired  to  solitude  the  wilder- 
ness became  a town.  Twenty  cardinals  and  fifty  bishops  had 
been  among  his  hearers. 

At  the  opening  of  the  thirteenth  century,  Oxford  was  second 
only  to  Paris  in  the  multitude  of  its  students  and  the  celebrity 
of  its  disputations.  Thirty  thousand  scholars,  thinking  more  of 
success  in  polemics  than  of  the  truths  involved,  swelled  the  stir 
and  turbulence  of  its  life.  Yet  be  not  deceived.  Thousands 
of  pupils  poorly  lodged,  clustering  around  teachers  as  poor  as 
themselves, — drinking,  quarrelling’,  begging;  retainers  fighting 
out  the  feuds  of  their  young  lords  in  the  streets;  roisterer  and 
reveller  roaming  with  torches  through  the  dark  and  filthy  lanes, 
defying  bailiffs  and  cutting  down  citizens;  a tavern  row  spread- 


88 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


ing  into  a general  broil,  bells  clanging  to  arms, — this  is  the 
seething,  surging  Oxford  of  mediaeval  history.  Upon  the  vision 
of  these  young  and  valiant  minds  flashed,  as  they  thought,  the 
temple  of  truth,  and  they  rushed  at  it  headlong,  as  knightly 
warriors  with  battle-axe  might  storm  a castle. 

Language. — The  principal  literature  was  in  Latin,  and,  after 
the  Conquest,  in  French.  The  former  — the  only  language  in 
which  the  scholar  might  hope  to  address,  not  merely  the  few 
among  a single  people,  but  the  whole  Republic  of  Letters  — was 
used  in  books  habitually,  as  the  common  language  of  the  edu- 
cated throughout  Europe.  In  it  were  written,  in  particular, 
most  works  on  subjects  of  theology,  science,  and  history;  in  the 
latter,  those  intended  rather  to  amuse  than  to  instruct,  and  ad- 
dressed, not  to  students,  but  to  the  idlers  of  the  court  and  the 
gentry,  by  whom  they  were  seldom  read,  but  only  heard  as  they 
were  recited  or  chanted.  In  the  thirteenth  century,  French  ac- 
quired that  widely  diffused  currency  as  a generally  known  and 
hence  convenient  common  medium  which  it  has  ever  since  main- 
tained. A Venetian  annalist  of  the  time  composed  his  chronicle 
in  it,  because,  to  use  his  own  words:  ‘The  French  tongue  is  cur- 
rent throughout  the  world,  and  is  more  delectable  to  read  and 
hear  than  any  other.’  Dante’s  teacher  employed  it,  and  thus 
apologized  for  using  it  instead  of  Italian: 

1 If  any  shall  ask  why  this  book  is  written  in  Romance,  according  to  the  patois  of 
France,  I being  born  Italian,  I will  say  it  is  for  divers  reasons.  The  one  is  that  I am 
now  in  France ; the  other  is  that  French  is  the  most  delightsome  of  tongues,  and  par- 
taketh  most  of  the  common  nature  of  all  other  languages.’ 

Its  frequent  use  by  English  writers  is  to  be  ascribed,  not  wholly 
to  the  predominance  of  Norman  influence,  but,  in  a considerable 
degree,  to  the  fact  that,  for  the  time,  it  occupied  much  the  same 
position  as  had  hitherto  been  awarded  to  the  Latin  as  the  com- 
mon dialect  of  learned  Europe. 

Of  the  vernacular,  many  of  the  most  important  terms,  ethical 
and  mental,  had  become  obsolete.  Of  foreign  words  in  it,  there 
were  yet  relatively  few.  The  whole  number  of  Romance  deri- 
vatives found  in  the  printed  works  of  authors  of  the  thirteenth 
century  scarcely  exceeds  one  thousand,  or  one-eighth  of  the  total 
vocabulary  of  that  era.  What  would  the  myriad-minded  Shake- 
speare, with  his  vast  requirement  of  fifteen  thousand,  have  done 


POETRY  OLDER  THAN  PROSE. 


89 


in  this  age,  with  its  pittance  of  eight  thousand  words  ? The  fol- 
lowing extract  is  from  the  Proclamation  of  Henry  III,  addressed 
in  1258  to  the  people  of  Huntingdon,  copies  being  sent  to  all  the 
shires  of  England  and  Ireland.  Prepositions,  it  will  be  observed, 
are  doing  the  work  of  the  lost  inflections;  and  the  sense  is  made 
to  depend  upon  the  sequence  of  the  words  alone: 


‘ Henry,  thurg  Godes  fultume 
King  on  Englene-loande  . . . 
send  igretinge  to  all  hise 
halde  ilaerde  and  ilaewede. 

Thaet  witen  ye  vvel  alle,  thaet  we 
willen  and  nnnen  thaet  thaet  nre  raedes- 
men  alle  other,  the  moare  dael  of  heom, 
thaet  beoth  ichosen  thurg  11s.  . . . And 
this  wes  idon  act  foren  ure  isworene  redcs- 
men.  And  al  on  tho  ilche  worden  is 
isend  in  to  aeunhce  othre  schire  over  all 
thaere  kuneriche  on  Englene-loande  and  ek 
intel  Irelande.' 


1 Henry,  through  God's  grace 
king  in  England  . . . 
sends  greeting  to  all  his 
subjects,  learned  and  unlearned. 

This  know  ye  well  all,  that  we 
will  and  grant,  that  what  our  council- 
lors all  or  the  more  deal  of  them, 
that  are  chosen  by  us.  . . . And 
this  was  done  before  our  sworn  council- 
lors. And  all  in  the  same  words  is 
sent  into  every  other  shire  over  all 
the  kingdom  in  England  and  eke 
into  Ireland.’ 


The  popular  speech  was  forcing  its  way  to  the  throne. 


Poetry. — In  early  periods,  feeling  and  fancy,  with  nations  as 
with  children,  are  strongest.  Emotion  seeks  utterance  before 
logic;  and  the  natural  expression  of  emotion  is  a chant,  a song. 
There  is  a real  kinship  between  the  waves  of  excited  feeling  and 
the  rhythmical  cadence  of  words  which  utter  it.  Early  literature, 
therefore,  is  almost  exclusively  one  of  poetry.  Language,  too, 
then  picturesque  and  bold,  lives  chiefly  on  the  tongue  and  in  the 
ear;  and  poetry,  by  its  rhythm,  uniting  with  the  charm  of  music, 
allows  an  oral  transfer  which  prose  does  not.  Rhythm  — the 
recurrence  of  sounds  and  silences  at  regular  intervals  of  time, 
the  essential  principle  of  poetry  — is  the  oldest  and  widest  artistic 
instinct  in  man;  for  man  is  the  emotive  part  of  nature,  and  the 
movement  of  nature,  it  is  the  grand  distinction  of  modern  science 
to  have  shown,  is  rhythmic.  Light  and  heat  go  in  undulations; 
the  seasons,  the  sun-spots,  come  and  go  in  correspondencies;  the 
variable  stars  brighten  and  pale  at  rhythmic  intervals;  the  ocean- 
tides  and  trade-winds  flow  by  rhythmic  rule;  planet,  satellite,  and 
comet  revolve  and  return  in  proportionate  periods.  The  mystic 
Hindoo’s  doctrine  of  the  primal  diffusion  of  matter  in  space,  the 
aggregation  of  atoms  into  worlds,  the  revolution  of  these  worlds, 
their  necessary  absorption  into  Brahma,  their  necessary  rediffu- 
sion, again  to  be  aggregated,  and  again  to  be  absorbed, — ever’ 


90 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


contracting,  ever  expanding, — what  is  this  but  the  rhythmic 
beating  of  the  heart  of  the  Eternal  — a divine  shuttle  that  weaves 
a definite  pattern  into  the  chaotic  fabric  of  things  ? After  two 
thousand  years  or  more,  we  are  beginning  to  see  dimly  into 
Pythagoras’  fanciful  dream  of  ‘the  music  of  the  spheres’;  Plato’s 
dictum,  ‘Time  itself  is  the  moving  image  of  Eternity’;  and  the 
Orphic  saying  of  the  seer,  ‘The  father  of  metre  is  rhythm,  and 
the  father  of  rhythm  is  God.’ 

During  the  antique  and  mediaeval  periods,  music,  though  in 
process  of  differentiation,  has  no  confirmed  separate  existence 
from  poetry;  and  both  are  at  first  united  in  closest  bonds  with 
the  dance.  The  poet  is  then  a wandering  minstrel  — Gleeman , 
the  Saxons  called  him.  His  training  from  early  childhood  was  to 
store  his  memory  with  the  poetic  legends  of  his  land;  and  when 
later  he  wove  into  rude  verse  the  story  of  his  own  day,  it  went 
nameless  into  the  common  stock  of  the  craft.  When  the  shadows 
had  fallen,  and  the  festive  hall  was  filled,  while  the  beer-horn 
passed  merrily  from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  Gleeman  with  his  ‘ wood 
of  joy’  roused  or  soothed  the  fiery  passions  of  the  warriors  as  he 
related  the  deeds  of  the  heroic  dead  or  sung  the  praises  of  their 
posterity,  chanting  to  his  harp,  now  one  adventure,  now  another, 
as  the  guests  or  their  lord  might  call  for  this  or  that  favorite  inci- 
dent. No  festival  was  complete  without  him  and  his  harp.  He 
travelled  far  and  wide,  songster,  poet,  and  historian,  everywhere 
received  with  consideration.  By  the  winter  fire  or  beneath  the 
summer  trees,  flushed  brows  grew  a darker  red,  or  the  war-shout 
faded  into  gentler  tones,  as  war  or  love  varied  the  theme  of  his 
wild  rough  melody.  Proudly  says  one  of  them,  who  had  dwelt 
with  the  high-born  of  many  lands: 

‘Thus  North  and  South,  where'er  they  roam, 

The  sons  of  song  still  find  a home, 

Speak  unreproved  their  wants,  and  raise 
Their  grateful  lay  of  thanks  and  praise; 

For  still  the  chief  who  seeks  to  grace 
By  fairest  fame  his  pride  of  place, 

Withholds  not  from  the  sacred  Bard 
His  well-earned  praise  and  high  reward; 

But  free  of  hand  and  large  of  soul, 

Where’er  extends  his  wide  control, 

Unnumbered  gifts  his  princely  love  proclaim, 

Unnumbered  voices  raise  to  heaven  his  princely  name.’ 


SAXON  VERSE-FORM 


91 


As  to  form,  Saxon  poetry  illustrates  the  overpowering  passion 
of  the  English  ear  for  3-rhythm,  or  the  recurrence  of  the  rhythmic 
accent  at  that  interval  of  time  represented  by  three  units  of  any 
sort, — no  matter  among  how  many  sounds  this  amount  of  time 
may  be  distributed.  The  prevailing  type  is  an  alternation  of  feet, 
or  ‘bars,’  of  the  form  J J * * | with  bars  of  the  form  ^ * J | ; 
the  musical  sign  £ — called  an  ‘eighth-note’ — representing  a 
sound  whose  duration  is  that  of  an  ordinary  syllable,  and  the 
sign  |# — called  a ‘quarter-note’ — representing  a sound  twice  as 
long.  The  type  may  be  varied  from  bar  to  bar,  to  prevent  the 
movement  from  growing  monotonous,  thus  yielding  the  effect  of 
an  ‘air  with  variations.’  In  the  rhythm  of  hurrying  rush  and 
martial  din,  Byrhtnoth  defies  the  invading  pirates  in  The  Tattle 
of  Maldon : 


\i  A • 1 

r i 

r 

; ' n 

— * * 

f— f — * — f— 

— £_• J 

e.-  ^ t i 

E £ =t?  * 3 

t— £ V i>— 

: t=  3 

Brim  - man  - na  bod  - a,  a - beod  eft  on  - geau; 


se  - ge  thin  - um  leod-um  micl  - e lath  - re  spell,  thaet 


her  stent  un  - for  - cuth  eorl  mid  his  we  - ro  - de 


Pcv  ] 

r ; i 

“I 

* * m J 

t—m # • 1 

[— 0 0 — 

r— f F — 

t £ — J 

L — ^ U U — ^ 

t_| 

E_j ^—3 

the  wi  - le  gealg  - i - an  e - thel  thys  - ne. 


-dSth  - el  - raed  - es  eard,  eald  - res  min  - es, 


foie  and  fold  - an:  feal  - lan  sceol  - on 


‘ Brimmana  boda,  abeod  eft  ongean ; 
sege  thinum  leodum  micle  lathre  spell, 
thaet  her  stent  unforcuth  eorl  mid  his  werode, 

the  wile  gealgian  ethel  thysne, 
vEthelraedes  eard,  ealdres  mines, 
folc  and  foldan:  feallan  sceolon 
haethene  aet  hilde.  Too  heanlic  me  thynceth, 


Herald  of  pirates,  be  herald  once  more ; 
bear  to  thy  people  a bitterer  message, — 
that  here  stands  dauntless  an  earl  with 
his  warriors, 

who  will  keep  us  this  country, 
land  of  my  lord,  Prince  ^Ethelred, 
folk  and  field:  perish  shall 
the  heathen  in  battle.  Too  base,  me 
thinketh. 


92 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


thaet  ge  mid  urum  sceattum  to  scipe  gangon 
unbefohtene,  nu  ge  thus  feor  hider 
on  urne  eard  inn  becomon ; 
ne  sceole  ge  swa  softe  sine  gegangan, 

us  sceal  ord  and  ecg  ser  geseinan 
grimm  guthplega,  aer  we  gafol  syllon.’ 


that  ye  with  gold  should  to  ship  get 
unfought,  now  ye  thus  far  hither 
to  be  in  our  land  have  come ; 
never  shall  ye  so  soft  go  hence  with  your 
treasure: 

us  shall  point  and  blade  persuade  — 
grim  game  of  war  — ere  we  pay  for  peace. 


Each  line,  it  is  seen,  consists  of  four  bars;  each  bar,  of  a number 
of  syllables  which  mark  off  determinate  periods  of  time  for  the 
ear.  The  first  note  in  a bar,  as  every  musician  understands,  is  to 
be  given  with  a slight  increase  of  intensity  — stress  or  accent. 
The  same  form  appears  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  epic  of  Beowulf : 


-3-  r r 

0 

I 0 

0 1 

0 

0 1 

f 

0 i 

'■&  V V 

if 

1 1 

If  1 

I 

if  1 

\ 

if  1 

Tha  waes 

on 

heal 

le 

heard  - 

ecg 

to 

gen, 

There  was 

in 

hall 

(the) 

falch  - 

ion 

brand  - 

ished, 

0 0 

0 

1 0 

0 | 

0 

t \ 

0 

b b 

u 

1 1 

i>  1 

1 

1 

if  1 

Sweord  o - 

fer 

setl 

- um, 

sid  - 

rand 

man  - 

ig 

Swords  o - 

ver 

bench 

- es , 

buck 

ler 

man  - 

y 

0 

0 

1 0 

0 0 

0 0 

0 I 

0 

0 i 

1 

if 

\ b 

b b 1 

If  if 

if  1 

\ 

if  1 

haf 

en 

hand  - 

a faest 

helm  ne 

ge 

mund  - 

e 

(was)  hov 

en. 

hand  - 

in  fast. 

helmet 

not 

mind  - 

ed. 

Again,  in  the 

mournful  melody  of 

The  Wanderer  : 

il  0 
-8-  1 

Oft 

0 1 

0 

0 0 1 

0 0 

0 I 

0 

r I 

If  1 

If 

b If  1 

if  if 

if  1 

1 

v 1 

him 

an  - 

ha  - ga 

a - re 

ge  - 

bid  - 

eth, 

Oft 

the 

Solitary 

(for)  mer 

- cy 

pray  - 

eth. 

0 0 

if  It 

0 I 

if  1 

0 

1 

b 1 

0 0 

b b 

b 1 

C b 

b 1 

Met  - od  - 

es 

milts 

e, 

theah  the 

he 

mod  - cea  * rig 

(for)  God's 

compassion , 

though 

he. 

mood  - careful, 

0 0 

0 

0 1 

0 

0 I 

0 

' 1 

If  If 

If  1 

1 

If  1 

1 

if  1 

1 

sceold 

if  1 

geond  lag  - 

u 

lad 

e 

long 

e 

- e 

over  (the) 

water 

- ways 

long 

(time) 

should 

0 0 

0 I 

0 

0 | 

0 0 

0 1 

0 

i 1 

b b 

b 1 

\ 

b 1 

if  U 

if  1 

hre  - ran 

mid 

bond 

um 

hrim  - calc 

l - e 

sa?. 

stir 

with 

(his) 

hands 

rime  - cold  (the) 

sea . 

Old  English  verse  has  one  peculiarity  to  establish  and  fortify  its 
rhythm.  This  is  alliteration.  The  first  three  bars  or  feet  begin, 
in  most  lines,  with  the  same  consonant-color;  less  frequently  with 
the  same  vowel-color;  sometimes  the  two  middle  bars  begin  alike, 


ALLITERATION  — RHYME. 


93 


or  the  first  and  third.  The  dominant  type  is  illustrated  by  the 
following-  passage  from  The  Phoenix , — the  third  line  excepted, 
which  presents  the  second: 

‘Ne  A’orestes  Fncest,  ne  Ryres  blcest , 
ne  //aegles  Hryre,  ne  //rymes  dryre , 
ne  Yunnan  haetu,  ne  /Sincald, 
ne  Warm  Weder,  ne  Winter  scur, 

Wihte  ge  Wirdan,  ac  se  Wong  seomath.’ 

Inasmuch  as  the  alliterative  letter  is  the  initial  letter  of  an  impor- 
tant word, — moreover,  of  an  important  sound  of  that  word, — the 
rhythmic  beat,  by  this  coincidence  of  pronunciative,  logical,  and 
rhythmic  accent,  is  rendered  strong  and  commanding.  Anon  we 
may  hear  the  sharp  ringing  blows  of  the  hammer  upon  the  anvil: 


‘Rlah  mah  Rliteth 
Rian  man  hwiteth, 
Rurg  sorg  Riteth, 
Raid  aid  thwiteth, 
Wraec-faec  Writeth, 
Wrath  ath  smiteth.’ 


The  strong  dart  flitteth, 
The  spear  man  whetteth, 
The  town  sorrow  biteth, 
The  bold  age  quelleth, 
Wreck  suspicion  worketh. 
Wrath  the  city  smiteth.1 


This  fondness  for  alliteration  lives  imperishably  in  a thousand 
proverbs,  saws,  and  sayings;  as,  ‘d/any  men,  many  minds,’  ‘Tfime 
and  2ide  wait  for  no  man.’ 

As  suggested  by  these  extracts,  another  feature  of  Saxon 
verse,  though  occurring  much  less  freely,  is  rhyme,  at  once  a 
color  and  an  artifice  to  mark  agreeably  for  the  ear  each  rhythmic 
group  of  bars, — a marble  statue  on  the  highway  instead  of  a 
mile-stone.  In  brief  resounding  metre,  with  the  measured  stroke 
of  a passing  bell,  a converted  warrior,  passing  into  the  shadows  of 
the  Night,  reviews  in  quick  luminous  vision  the  pride  and  glory 
of  his  morning  and  noon: 


0 

0 

0 

r 

0 

b 

b 

b 

b 

Wic 

o 

fer 

wong  - 

um 

0 

0 \ 

0 

0 

1 

P 1 

1 

V 

Wen 

- 

nan 

gong 

um 

0 

b 

Lis 

- se 

' 1 

mid 

i r 

long 

P 

um 

Leo 

- ma 

ge  - 

tong  - 

um. 

1 From  the  Exeter  Book , comprising  the  main  body  of  the  first  English  poetry. 


94 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


Me  lifes  onlah 
Se  this  le'oht  onwrah, 

And  thoet  torhte  geteoh 
Tillice  onwrah. 

Ghed  was  ic  gliwum, 

Glenged  hiwum, 

Blissa  bleoum 
Blostma  hiwum.  . . 

Horsce  mec  heredon, 

Ililde  generedon, 

Faegre  feredon, 

Feondon  biweredon.  . . 
Scealcas  wseron  scearpe 
Scyl  waes  hearpe. 

Hulde  hlynede, 

Hleothor  dynede, 

Swegl-rad  swinsade 
Swithe,  ne  minsade.  . . 

Nu  min  hrether  is  hreoh 
Heoh-sithum  sceoh, 

Nyd  bisgum  neah; 

Gewited  nihtes  infleah 
Se  ser  in  dsege  was  dyre.  . . 
Wid  sith  onginneth, 

Sar  ne  sinneth, 

Sorgum  cinnith, 

Blied  his  blinnith, 

Blisse  linnath, 

Listum  linneth, 

Lustum  ne  cinneth. 

Dreamas  swa  her  gedresath, 
Dryht  scyre  gehreosath;  . . . 
Thonne  lichoma  ligeth, 

Linna  wyrm  friteth, 

Ac  him  wen  ne  gewigeth, 
And  tha  wist  gehygeth; 
Oththaet  beath  tha  ban  an.  . . 


He  raised  me  to  life 
Who  displayed  this  light, 

And  this  bright  possession 
Bountifully  disclosed. 

Glad  was  I in  glee, 

Adorned  with  [fair]  colors, 

With  the  hues  of  bliss 
And  the  tints  of  blossoms.  . . 
Warriors  obeyed  me, 

Delivered  me  in  battle, 

Fairly  supported  me, 

Protected  me  from  enemies.  . . 

My  servants  were  sagacious, 

There  wras  skill  in  their  harping. 

It  resounded  loud. 

The  strain  reechoed, 

Melody  was  heard 
Powerfully,  nor  did  it  cease.  . . 

But  now  my  breast  is  stormy 
Shaken  by  the  season  of  woe, 

Need  is  nigh; 

And  night’s  approach  torments  him 
Who  before  in  the  day  was  dear.  . . 
A wide  journey  beginneth, 

Affliction  ceaseth  not; 

He  exclaimeth  in  sorrows, 

His  joy  hath  ceased, 

His  bliss  hath  declined, 

He  is  fallen  from  his  delights; 

He  exclaimeth  not  in  happiness. 
Thus  glories  here  are  prostrated, 
And  the  lordly  lot  brought  low;  . . . 
Then  the  corpse  lieth, 

Worm  fretteth  the  limbs, 

And  the  worm  departeth  not, 

And  there  chooseth  its  repast, 

Until  there  be  bone  only  left.1  . . . 


In  style,  it  is  seen  to  be  elliptical  and  inverted,  abrupt,  ex- 
clamatory, and  glowing,  the  more  vigorous  by  the  absence  of  the 
usual  particles, — a concrete  of  quick,  passionate  images,  like  a 
succession  of  lightning-flashes.  Alfred  thus  renders  a sentence 


1 After  this  exposition  of  Anglo-Saxon  verse-form,  the  following  statements  may 
appear  to  the  reader  not  a little  surprising: 

‘In  none  (of  the  Anglo-Saxon  poems)  is  found  the  slightest  trace  of  temporal 
rhythm.’— Dr.  Guest. 

‘The  number  of  unaccented  syllables  is  indifferent.’— Sweet. 

‘It  was  not  written  in  rime  nor  were  its  syllables  counted.’ — Rev.  Stopford  Brooke. 

‘ We  do  not  see  any  marks  of  studied  alliteration  in  the  old  Saxon  poetry.’ — Tyrwhitt. 

‘There  is  no  rhyme,  and  no  counting  of  syllables.’— Morley. 

‘Their  poets  . . . arranged  their  vernacular  verses  without  any  distinct  rules ’ ; and 
again,  ‘They  used  it  [alliteration]  without  special  rules.’— Coppte. 

‘ Nor  is  there  any  rhyming,  for  rhyme  was  an  adornment  unknown  in  English  poetry 
until  after  the  Norman  Conquest.’ — Shaw. 

‘No  work  in  which  rhyme  or  metre  was  used,  can  be  traced  in  our  literature  until 
after  the  Norman  Conquest.’ — Collier. 


THE  SAXON  IDEAL. 


95 


of  prose — ‘So  doth  the  moon  with  his  pale  light,  that  the  bright 
stars  he  obscures  in  the  heavens’ — into  verse: 


Or  again: 


‘With  pale  light 
Bright  stars 
Moon  lessencth.’ 


‘Then  went  over  the  sea-waves, 
Hurried  by  the  wind, 

The  ship  with  foamy  neck, 
Most  like  a sea-fowl; 

Till  about  one  hour 
Of  the  second  day 
The  curved  prow 
Had  passed  onward. 


So  that  the  sailors 
The  land  saw, 

The  shore-cliffs  shining, 
Mountains  steep, 

And  broad  sea-noses. 
Then  was  the  sea  sailing 
Of  the  Earl  at  an  end.’ 


From  the  life  we  have  traced,  we  can  infer  the  kind  of  poetry 
most  in  harmony  with  Old  English  sentiments.  Its  poetry  will 
be  the  revelation  of  its  soul, — the  embodiment  of  its  ideals;  and 
human  ideals,  in  the  young  generations  of  the  world  as  in  the  old, 
are  determined  by  the  point  of  view  at  which  men  stand,  being 
little  or  great,  serene  or  stormy,  sincere  or  hollow,  as  is  the  life 
of  the  artist,  whether  that  artist  be  one  or  a community,  one  age 
or  many  ages.  Every  people  has  its  Hercules  or  Samson  — its 
ideal  of  brute  force,  of  vast  bodily  strength  or  cunning,  who 
strangles  serpents,  rends  lions,  and  slaughters  hostile  hosts.  A 
type  perceptibly  higher  is  the  valiant  one  whose  might,  prowess, 
and  indomitable  will  exorcise  his  native  land  of  giant-fiends  or 
dragons, — a heroic  Captain,  peradventure,  true-hearted,  just,  and 
noble.  Such  is  the  central  figure  of  our  nameless  English  epic, — 
Beowulf y imported  from  the  Continental  homestead  and  revised 
by  an  unknown  Christian  bard:  Christian,  for  none  other  could 
have  spoken  of  Cain;  none  other  would  have  called  the  people 
heathens;  none  other  would  have  said: 


‘When  sorrow  on  him  came  and  pain  befell, 

He  left  the  joy  of  men  and  chose  God's  light.' 

Beowulf  is  a hero,  a knight-errant  before  the  days  of  chivalry, 
who,  with  his  sword  hard  in  his  hand,  has  rowed  ‘amidst  the 
fierce  waves  and  coldest  of  storms,  and  the  rage  of  the  winter 
hurtled  over  the  waves  of  the  deep’;  whom  the  many-colored 
foes,  sea  monsters,  drew  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  held  fast  in 
their  gripe,  but  he  reached  ‘the  wretches  with  his  point  and  with 
his  war-bill.’  Across  the  path  of  the  swans  (the  sea)  he  comes 


96 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


to  succor  the  Danish  King  Hrothgar,  in  whose  hall,  where  the 
banquet,  the  song*,  and  the  dance  wrere  wont  to  go  on,  is  much 
sorrow;  for  Grendel,  ‘a  mighty  haunter  of  the  marshes,’  lias 
entered  during  the  night,  seized  thirty  of  the  sleeping  warriors, 
and  returned  with  their  carcasses  to  his  fen-dwelling.  For  twelve 
winters’  tide,  the  fiend  has  devoured  men,  till  the  best  of  houses 
stand  empty.  Beowulf,  the  valiant,  offers  to  grapple  with  the 
dreadful  ogre,  asking  only  that  if  death  takes  him,  they  will  mark 
his  burial  place,  and  send  to  his  chief  the  war-shroud  that  guards 
his  breast.  When  the  mists  have  risen  and  all  is  still,  Grendel 
enters  in  hope  of  dainty  glut,  seizes  a sleeping  warrior,  bites  his 
bone-casings,  drinks  the  blood  from  the  veins,  and  swallows  him 
with  ‘continual  tearings.’  But  the  hero  seizes  him  in  turn,  and, 
when  he  wTould  fain  return  to  his  haunt,  holds  him: 

‘These  warders  strong  waxed  wrathful,  fiercer  grew, 

The  hall  resounded;  wonder  much  there  was 
That  it  so  well  withstood  the  warring  beasts,— 

That  fell  not  to  the  earth  this  fair  land-house. 


And  then  arose  strange  sound;  upon  the  Danes 
Dire  terror  stood,  of  all  who  heard  the  whoop, 

The  horrid  lay  of  God's  denier, 

The  song  that  sang  defeat  and  pain  bewailed  — 

Hell’s  captive's  lay  — for  in  his  grasp  too  firm 
Did  he,  of  men  the  strongest,  hold  his  prey.’ 

In  his  efforts  to  get  away,  the  monster’s  sinews  spring  asunder, 
the  bone-casings  burst;  and  leaving  on  the  ground  his  hand,  arm, 
and  shoulder,  he  flees  to  his  joyless  home,  ‘sick  unto  death,’  for 
‘the  number  of  his  days  was  gone  by.’  Then  are  great  rejoic- 
ings in  the  palace.  But  there  remains  the  ‘sea-wolf  of  the 
abyss,  the  mighty  sea-woman,’  his  mother,  who  comes  by  night, 
and  amidst  drawn  swords  tears  and  devours  the  king’s  chosen 
friend.  Again  Beowulf  offers  himself,  seeks  the  ogress  in  her 
dread  abode,  where  strange  dragons  and  serpents  swim,  and  one 
by  night  may  behold  the  marvel  of  fire  upon  the  flood,  while  ever 
and  anon  the  horn  sings  a wild  terrible  dirge.  He  plunges  into 
the  surge,  descends,  passes  monsters  who  tear  his  coat  of  mail, 
to  the  ‘hateful  man-slayer.’  She  seizes  the  champion  in  her 
horrid  clutches,  and  bears  him  off  to  her  den,  where  a pale 
gleam  shines  brightly  and  shows  them  face  to  face.  With  his 
‘beam  of  war’  he  smites  on  her  head  till  ‘the  riinj-mail’  sinars 


BEOWULF  THE  VALIANT. 


97 


‘aloud  a greedy  war-song’;  but  the  weapon  will  not  ‘bite.’  She 
overthrows  him,  but  he  rescues  himself,  espies  ‘an  old  gigantic 
sword,  doughty  of  edge,  ready  for  use,  the  work  of  giants.’ 
‘Fierce  and  savage,  despairing  of  life,’  he  strikes  furiously,  so 
that  it  grapples  ‘hard  with  her  about  the  neck,’  breaks  ‘the  bone- 
rings,’  passes  through  the  doomed  body,  which  sinks,  and  all  is 
silent: 

' The  sword  was  bloody,  the  man  rejoiced  in  his  deed;  the  beam  shone,  light  stood 
within,  even  as  from  heaven  mildly  shines  the  lamp  of  the  firmament.’ 

Another  triumph,  and  renewed  joy.  Afterwards  he  is  himself 
ruler.  When  he  had  reigned  fifty  years,  a dragon,  who  had 
been  robbed  of  his  treasure  which  he  had  guarded  three  hun- 
dred years,  came  from  the  hill  and  burned  men  and  houses  with 
‘waves  of  fire.’  Ordering  for  himself  a variegated  shield,  all  of 
iron,  he  goes  to  battle  with  ‘the  foul,  insidious  stranger,’  in  a 
cavern  ‘under  the  earth,  nigh  to  the  sea  wave,’  full  within  of 
embossed  ornaments  and  wires;  ‘too  proud  to  seek  the  wide 
flier  with  a troop,  with  a large  company’;  yet  sadly,  as  if  with 
a presentiment  that  the  end  is  near: 

‘Firm  rose  the  stone-wrought  vault,  a living  stream 
Burst  from  the  barrow,  reel  with  ceaseless  flame 
That  torrent  glowed;  nor  lived  there  soul  of  man 
Might  tempt  the  dread  abyss,  nor  feel  its  rage. 

So  watched  the  fire-drake  o’er  his  hoard;  — and  now 
Deep  from  his  laboring  breast  the  indignant  Goth 
Gave  utterance  to  the  war-cry.  Loud  and  clear 
Beneath  the  hoar  stone  rung  the  deafening  sound. 

And  strife  uprose:  the  watcher  of  the  gold 

Had  marked  the  voice  of  man.  First  from  his  lair, 

Shaking  firm  earth,  and  vomiting,  as  he  strode, 

A foul  and  fiery  blast,  the  monster  came. 

Yet  stood  beneath  the  barrow’s  lofty  side 
The  Goth's  unshaken  champion,  and  opposed 
To  that  infuriate  foe  his  full-orbed  shield. 

Then  the  good  war-king  bared  his  trenchant  blade: 

Tried  was  its  edge  of  old,  the  stranger’s  dread. 

And  keen  to  work  the  foul  aggressor's  woe. 

The  kingly  Goth 

Reared  high  his  hand,  and  smote  the  grisly  foe; 

But  the  dark  steel  upon  the  unyielding  mail 
Fell  impotent,  nor  served  its  master's  need 
Now  at  his  utmost  peril.  Nor  less  that  stroke 
To  maddening  mood  the  bfir row’s  warder  roused: 

Outburst  the  flame  of  strife,  and  blaze  of  war 
Beamed  horribly;  still  no  triumph  won  the  Goth, 

Still  failed  his  keen  brand  in  the  unequal  fray  . . . 

7 


98 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


Again  they  met  — again  with  freshened  strength 
Forth  from  his  breast  the  unconquered  monster  poured 
That  pestilent  breath.  Encompassed  by  its  flames. 

Sad  jeopardy  and  new  the  chieftain  held.’ 

With  the  assistance  of  a trusty  comrade,  he  carves  the  worm  in 
twain.  Burning  and  faint  with  mortal  wounds,  he  forgets  him- 
self in  death,  thinking  only  that  his  valor  profits  others;  and 
says,  grandly,  the  man  breathing  manifest  beneath  the  hero: 

‘I  have  held  this  people  fifty  years;  there  was  not  any  king  of  my  neighbors,  who 
dared  to  greet  me  with  warriors,  to  oppress  me  with  terror.  ...  I held  my  own  well, 
I sought  not  treacherous  malice,  nor  swore  unjustly  many  oaths;  on  account  of  all  this, 
I,  sick  with  mortal  wounds,  may  have  joy.  . . . Now  do  thou  go  immediately  to  behold 
the  hoard  under  the  hoary  stone,  my  dear  Wiglaf.  . . . Now,  I have  purchased  with  my 
death  a hoard  of  treasures;  it  will  be  yet  of  advantage  at  the  need  of  the  people.  . . . 
I give  thanks  . . . that  I might  before  my  dying  day  obtain  such  for  my  people  . . . 
longer  may  I not  here  be.’ 

He  dies,  killed  by  the  dragon’s  flame-breath,  and  is  solemnly 
buried  under  a great  barrow  rising  high  above  the  deep  blue 
waves: 

‘And  round  about  the  mound  rode  his  hearth-sharers,  who  sang  that  he  was  of  kings, 
of  men,  the  mildest,  kindest,  to  his  people  sweetest,  and  the  readiest  in  search  of  praise.’ 

There  — 

‘No  sound  of  harp  shall  the  warrior  awake;  but  the  dusky  raven  ready  o'er  the 
fallen  shall  speak  many  things,— to  the  eagle  shall  tell  how  lie  fared  at  his  food  while 
with  the  wolf  he  spoiled  the  slain.’ 

Here,  under  the  light  of  poetry,  through  the  mist  of  real 
events,  transformed  into  legendary  marvels,  we  see  the  actual 
life  of  Scandinavian  English, — its  pride,  its  melancholy,  its  re- 
liance upon  strength  of  arm,  its  practical  spirit  of  adventure,  its 
fatalism — ‘What  is  to  be  goes  ever  as  it  must’ — tinged  with  the 
energetic  sense  that  ‘the  Must-Be  often  helps  an  undoomed  man 
when  he  is  brave.’  Thought  is  too  impassioned  for  the  details  of 
comparison, — a characteristic  of  all  Anglo-Saxon  verse.  In  the 
six  thousand  and  odd  lines  there  are  only  five  similes.  Compare 
the  Celtic  fancy,  with  its  love  of  ornament,  as  displayed  in  an 
average  stanza  on  a Cymric  chief  who  fell  before  the  advancing 
Saxon : 

‘Both  shoulders  covered  with  his  painted  shield 
The  hero  there,  swift  as  the  war-horse,  rushed. 

Noise  in  the  mount  of  slaughter,  noise  and  fire; 

The  darting  lances  were  as  gleams  of  sun. 

There  the  glad  raven  fed.  The  foe  must  fly 


TRAGIC  TONE  OF  SAXON  POETRY. 


99 


While  he  so  swept  them  as  when  in  his  course 
An  eagle  strikes  the  morning  (lews  aside, 

And  like  a whelming  billow  struck  their  front. 

Brave  men,  so  say  the  bards,  arc  dumb  to  slaves. 

Spears  wasted  men,  and  ere  the  swan-white  steeds 
Trod  the  still  grave  that  hushed  the  master  voice, 

His  blood  washed  all  his  arms.  Such  was  Buddvan, 

Son  of  Blcedvan  the  Bold.’ 

A vehement  phrase,  without  connectives,  without  order,  with  no 
ornament  but  three  words  beginning  alike,  an  exclamation,  a cry, 
a glowing  image, — such  is  the  style  of  the  Saxon  poets.  Joy 
and  fury  neglect  art.  When  passion  bellows,  ideas  are  crowded 
and  clashed.  See  it  all  in  the  battle-song  of  The  Fight  at 
Finsbury : 

‘The  army  goes  forth:  the  birds  sing,  the  cricket  chirps,  the  war-weapons  sound, 
the  lance  clangs  against  the  shield.  Now  shineth  the  moon,  wandering  under  the  sky. 
Now  arise  deeds  of  woe,  which  the  enmity  of  this  people  prepares  to  do.  . . . Then  in 
the  court  came  the  tumult  of  war-carnage.  . . . The  raven  whirled  about,  dark  and 
sombre,  like  a willow  leaf.  There  was  a sparkling  of  blades,  as  if  all  Finsburg  were 
on  fire.  Never  have  I heard  of  a more  worthy  battle  in  war.' 

From  the  introduction  of  Christianity,  the  predominant  tone 
of  Saxon  poetry  is  religious.  But  its  voice,  if  less  savage,  is 
otherwise  unchanged.  Still  its  soul  is  tragic;  its  tones  passion- 
ate and  lightning-like.  It  is  the  old  heart  in  transition, — yet  a 
strong  barbarous  heart.  If  it  essays  a Bible  narrative,  as  in  the 
tragedy  of  Judith , we  may  see  the  pagan  flesh  and  blood  in  the 
tumult,  murder,  vengeance,  and  combat  of  the  verses.  Holo- 
fernes  gives  a feast: 

‘All  hi?  fierce  chief?,  bold  mail-clad  warriors,  went  at  the  feast  to  sit,  eager  to  drink 
wine.  There  were  often  carried  the  deep  bowls  behind  the  benches;  so  likewise  ves- 
sels and  orcas  full  to  those  sitting  at  supper.  . . . Then  was  Holofernes  rejoiced  with 
wine;  in  the  halls  of  his  guests  he  laughed  and  shouted,  he  roared  and  dinned.  Afar 
off  might  the  stern  one  be  heard  to  storm  and  clamor.  . . . So  was  the  wicked  one — 
the  lord  and  his  men  — drunk  with  wine,  . . . till  that  they  swimming  lay  ...  as  they 
were  death-slain.' 

The  night  having  arrived  he  falls  drunk  on  his  bed.  The  moment 
is  come  for  Judith,  ‘the  maid  of  the  Creator,  the  holy  woman,’ 
to  deliver  Israel: 

‘She  took  the  heathen  man  fast  by  his  hair;  she  drew  him  by  his  limbs  toward  her 
disgracefully;  and  the  mischief-full,  odious  man,  at  her  pleasure  laid,  so  as  the  wretch 
she  might  the  easiest  well  command.  She  with  the  twisted  locks  struck  the  hateful 
enemy,  meditating  hate,  with  the  red  sword,  till  she  had  half  cut  off  his  neck;  so  that 
he  lay  in  a swoon,  drunk  and  mortally  wounded.  He  was  not  then  dead,— not  entirely 
lifeless;  earnest  then  she  struck  another  time  the  heathen  hound— she  the  woman 


100 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


illustrious  in  strength  — till  that  his  head  rolled  forth  upon  the  floor.  Cofferless  lay 
the  foul  one;  downward  turned  his  spirit  under  the  abyss,  and  there  was  plunged 
below  with  sulphur  fastened;  forever  afterward  wounded  by  worms.  In  torments 
bound  — hard  imprisoned  — he  burns  in  hell.  After  his  course  he  need  not  hope  that 
he  may  escape  from  that  mansion  of  worms,  with  darkness  overwhelmed;  but  there  he 
shall  remain  ever  and  ever  — without  end  — henceforth  void  of  the  joys  of  hope,  in  that 
cavern  home.’ 

Judith,  returning  to  the  city  with  the  head  of  this  wicked  one,  is 
met  by  the  people,  and  the  warrior  instinct  swells  into  flame,  as 
she  exhorts  them  to  battle: 

4 Men  under  helms  (went  out)  from  the  holy  city  at  the  dawn  itself.  They  dinned 
■shields;  men  roared  loudly.  At  this  rejoiced  the  lank  wolf  in  the  wood,  and  the  wan 
raven,  the  fowl  greedy  of  slaughter,  both  from  the  west,  that  the  sons  of  men  for  them 
should  have  thought  to  prepare  their  fill  on  corpses.  And  to  them  flew  in  their  paths 
the  active  devourer,  the  eagle,  hoary  in  his  feathers.  The  willowed  kite,  with  his 
horned  beak,  sang  the  song  of  Hilda.  The  noble  warriors  proceeded,  they  in  mail,  to 
the  battle,  furnished  with  shields,  with  swelling  banners.’ 

Men  of  any  high  mental  power  must  be  serious,  whether  in 
ancient  or  modern  days.  Only  consider  the  reflective  mood,  the 
intense  seriousness  of  this  Saxon  poetry.  The  Hydriotaphia  of 
Browne  and  the  Tlianatopsis  of  Bryant  are  here  in  the  bud. 
There  is  no  passing  by  on  the  other  side;  but  down  to  its  utter- 
most depth,  to  its  most  appalling  detail,  it  strives,  like  the 
Greek,  to  sound  the  secrets  of  sorrow.  If  any  hope,  relief,  or 
triumph  may  hereafter  seem  possible, — well;  but  if  not,  still 
hopeless,  reliefless,  eternal,  the  sorrow  shall  be  met  face  to  face. 
This  Northern  imagination,  which  compared  life  to  the  flight  of 
a bird, — in  at  one  door  and  out  at  another,  whence  it  came  and 
whither  it  went  being  equally  unknown  to  the  lookers-on,  now 
contemplates  the  stern  agony  of  the  ‘breathless  darkness’  in  a 
poem  called  The  Grave , sad  and  grand  like  the  life  of  man. 

4 For  thee  was  a house  built  ere  thou  wert  born ; for  thee  a mould  shapen  ere  thou 
of  thy  mother  earnest.  Its  height  is  not  determined,  nor  is  its  depth  measured;  nor  is 
it  closed  up  (however  long  it  may  be),  until  I thee  bring  where  thou  shalt  remain ; until 
I shall  measure  thee  and  the  sod  of  the  earth.  Thy  house  is  not  highly  built;  it  is  un- 
high  and  low.  When  thou  art  in  it,  the  heel-ways  are  low,  the  side-ways  unhigh.  The 
roof  is  built  thy  breast  full  nigh;  so  thou  shalt  in  earth  dwell  full  cold,  dim,  and  dark. 
Doorless  is  that  house,  and  dark  is  it  within.  There  thou  art  fast  detained,  and  Death 
holds  the  key.  Loathly  is  that  earth-house,  and  grim  to  dwell  in.  There  thou  shalt 
dwell,  and  worms  shall  share  thee.  Thus  thou  art  laid,  and  leavest  thy  friends.  Thou 
hast  no  friend  that  will  come  to  thee,  who  will  ever  inquire  how  that  house  liketh  thee, 
who  shall  ever  open  for  thee  the  door,  and  seek  thee,  for  soon  thou  becomest  loathly 
and  hateful  to  look  upon.’ 

To  this  people,  which  has  forgotten  the  halls  of  Valhalla, 
to  which  danger  is  a delight,  which  loves  gloomy  pictures,  the 


SOMBRE  IMAGINATION  OF  THE  NORTH. 


101 


shadowy  is  a fascination,  as  to  the  Hindoo,  the  Egyptian  and  the 
Greek.  The  SouVs  Complaint  of  the  Body  suggests  the  under- 
world rivers  and  the  wandering  hapless  ghosts  of  Greek  and 
Roman  mythology: 

‘Befits  it  well  that  man  should  deeply  weigh 
His  soul's  last  journey;  how  he  then  may  fare 
When  death  comes  on  him,  and  breaks  short  in  twain 
The  bond  that  held  his  flesh  and  spirit  linked: 

Long  is  it  thence  ere  at  the  hands  of  Heaven 
The  spirit  shall  reap  joy  or  punishment. 

E’en  as  she  did  in  this  her  earthly  frame. 

For  ere  the  seventh  night  of  death  hath  past, 

Ghastly  and  shrieking  shall  that  spirit  come,— 

The  soul  to  find  its  body.  Restless  thus 

(Unless  high  Heaven  first  work  the  end  of  all  things) 

A hundred  years  thrice  told  the  shade  shall  roam.’ 

So  Virgil  represents  the  souls  of  the  unburied  haunting  the 
banks  of  the  Styx,  sad  and  tombless,  vainly  entreating  in  pa- 
thetic suppliance  the  dread  Charon  to  ferry  them  over: 

‘There  stood  the  first  and  prayed  him  hard  to  waft  their  bodies  o’er, 

With  hands  stretched  out  for  utter  love  of  that  far-lying  shore; 

But  that  grim  sailor  now  takes  these,  now  those,  from  out  the  band, 

While  all  the  others  far  away  he  thrusteth  from  the  sand.'  . . . 

For — 

‘Those  borne  across  the  wave 
Are  buried:  none  may  ever  cross  the  awful  roaring  road 
Until  their  bones  are  laid  at  rest  within  their  last  abode. 

An  hundred  years  they  stray  about  and  wander  round  the  shore, 

Then  they  at  last  have  grace  to  gain  the  pools  desired  so  sore.’ 

All  who  know  what  pathos  there  is  in  the  memory  of  faces 
that  have  vanished,  of  joys  that  have  faded,  of  days  gone  by, — 
holy  as  spots  of  earth  where  angel-feet  have  stepped,  will  appre- 
ciate the  rare  poetical  power  of  the  mutilated  poem  of  The 
Ruin : 

‘Wondrous  is  this  wall-stone,  the  fates  have  broken  it  — have  burst  the  burgh- 
place.  Perishes  the  work  of  giants;  fallen  are  the  roofs,  the  towers  tottering  — the 
hoar  gate-towers  despoiled  — rime  on  the  lime—  hrim  on.  lime;  shattered  are  the  battle- 
ments, riven,  fallen  under  the  Eotnish  race;  the  earth-grave  has  its  powerful  work- 
men; decayed,  departed,  the  hard  of  gripe  are  fallen  and  passed  away  to  a hundred 
generations  of  people.  . . . Bright  were  the  burgh-dwellings,  many  its  princely  halls, 
high  its  steepled  splendor;  there  was  martial  sound  great,  many  a mead-hall  full  of 
human  joys,  until  obdurate  fate  changed  it  all;  they  perished  in  wide  slaughter.  . . . 
There  many  a chief  of  old,  joyous  and  gold-bright,  splendidly  decorated,  proud,  and 
with  wine  elate,  in  warlike  decorations  shone;  looked  on  treasures,  on  silver,  on  curious 
gems,  on  luxury,  on  wealth,  on  precious  stone,  on  this  bright  burgh  of  a broad  realm.’ 

Among  the  unknown  poets,  there  is  one,  Csedmon,  whose 
vigor  and  grandeur  will  presently  be  the  subject  of  special  con- 
sideration. Meanwhile,  that  which  is  sown  is  not  quickened 


102 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


except  it  die.  The  decay  of  an  old  literature  is  the  antecedent 
condition  for  a new  mode  of  intellectual  life.  This  old  poetic 
genius  of  sublimity  and  fury,  waning  before  the  Conquest,  dis- 
appears after  it,  to  emerge  once  more  when  the  wounds  have 
closed  and  the  saps  have  mingled.  Till  then,  the  current  that 
flows  shallow  and  fantastic  above  ground  is  of  French  origin. 

What  was  this  new  literature,  by  which  a broader  spreading 
and  a more  generous  vine  should  spring  from  the  regenerated 
root  of  the  old  stock  ? Romantic  fiction. 

Its  origin . — The  child  personifies  the  stone  that  hurts  him, 
and  his  first  impulse  is  to  resent  the  injury  as  if  he  imagined  it 
to  be  endowed  with  consciousness  and  to  be  acting  with  design. 
The  childhood  of  superstition  personifies  each  individual  exist 
ence, — the  plant  and  the  rock.  The  childhood  of  philosophy  per- 
sonifies the  universe.  The  barbarian  is  fascinated  by  the  incom- 
prehensible. Unable  to  assign,  for  a natural  phenomenon,  a cause 
within  nature,  he  has  recourse  to  a living  personality  enshrined 
in  it.  To  every  grotto  he  gives  a genius;  to  every  tree,  river, 
spring,  a divinity.  Out  of  the  darkness  he  cannot  tell  what  alarm- 
ing spectre  may  emerge.  Everywhere  he  is  a believer  in  sor- 
cery, witchcraft,  enchantments.  In  an  advanced  stage  of  develop- 
ment, he  conceives  a number  of  personal  beings  distinct  from  the 
material  creation,  which  preside  over  the  different  provinces  of 
nature, — the  sea,  the  air,  the  winds,  the  streams,  the  heavens,  and 
assume  the  guardianship  of  individuals,  tribes,  and  nations.  Re- 
membering this  tendency  for  personification  which  marks  the 
early  life  of  man,  his  necessity  of  referring  effects  to  their  causes, 
and  his  interpretation  of  things  according  to  outward  appear- 
ances, we  shall  better  understand  how  the  Hours,  the  Dawn,  and 
the  Night,  with  her  black  mantle  bespangled  with  stars,  came  to- 
receive  their  forms;  how  the  clouds  were  sacred  cattle  driven  to 
their  milking,  or  sheep  of  the  golden  fleece;  how  the  fall  of  the 
dew  was  the  shedding  of  divine  tears,  and  the  fatal  sun-shafts 
the  arrows  of  Apollo  shot  from  his  golden  bow;  how  the  west, 
where  the  sun  and  stars  go  down,  was  the  portal  cf  descent  to 
hell,  and  the  morning  twilight  a reflection  from  the  Elysian 
Fields;  how  the  eruptions  of  the  volcano  were  due  to  the  throes 
of  the  agonized  giant,  vainly  struggling  to  rise;  how  earthquakes, 
famine,  hail,  snow,  and  tempests  were  the  work  of  supernatural 


MYTH-MAKING  — IDEALIZATION. 


103= 


fiends;  how  the  traditions  of  every  land  are  replete  with  the  ex- 
ploits of  gods,  magicians,  and  devils.  Further,  under  the  opera- 
tion of  this  principle,  a similarity  of  imagery  will  exist  wherever 
there  exists  a resemblance  in  the  objects  calling  it  forth;  and  a 
multitude  of  the  symbols  thus  brought  into  circulation  will  be 
found  recurring,  like  the  primitive  roots  of  a language,  in  almost 
every  country,  as  common  property  inherited  by  descent.  Thus,, 
a mound  of  earth  becomes  the  sepulchre  of  a favorite  hero;  a 
pile  of  enormous  stones,  the  labor  of  a giant;  a single  one,  the 
stupendous  instrument  of  daily  exercise  to  a fabled  king;  the 
figure  of  a rock,  proof  of  some  deity’s  wrath  or  presence, — the 
foot-print  of  Hercules  or  the  weeping  Niobe:  every  one,  of  Aryan 
blood,  knows  that  the  moon  is  inhabited  by  a man  with  a bundle 
of  sticks  on  his  back,  exiled  thither  many  centuries,  and  so  far 
away  that  he  is  beyond  the  reach  of  death;  from  the  remotest 
period,  the  rod  has  been  employed  in  divination;  in  Bohemia, 
in  Scotland,  in  Switzerland,  in  Iceland,  in  North  America,  is  the 
story  of  some  Rip  Van  Winkle  who  slumbers  while  years  or  ages 
glide  by  like  a watch  in  the  night;  and  of  that  great  mystery  of 
human  life  which  is  an  enigma  never  solved,  and  ever  originating* 
speculation,  is  born  the  myth  of  the  Wandering  Jew.  Consider, 
again,  how  incidents  change  by  distance,  and  we  by  age.  How 
a thing  grows  in  memory  when  love  or  hate  is  there  to  idealize 
it ! The'  philosophic  Agis  had  to  console  his  desponding  coun- 
trymen with  a remark  which  every  man’s  experience  has  made 
familiar, — that  ‘the  fading  virtues  of  later  times  were  a cause  of 
grief  to  his  father,  who  in  turn  had  listened  to  the  same  regrets 
from  his  own  venerable  sire.’  Washington,  whose  picture  even 
now  transcends  the  fact,  would  be  a myth , had  there  been  no 
books.  In  the  days  of  Alfred,  golden  bracelets  hung  untouched 
in  the  open  road.  In  the  native  vigor  of  the  youthful  world,  a 
thousand  years  are  given  to  the  life  of  man.  The  national  hero, 
through  the  lengthened  vista,  acquires  a gigantic  stature.  The 
body  of  Orestes  when  found  measured  seven  cubits,  and  the  san- 
dals of  Perseus  two.  How  prismatic  must  be  the  imagination, 
when  the  national  mind,  as  here,  is  yet  in  the  fresh  young  radi- 
ance of  hope  and  wonder,  as  of  the  young  child’s  thoughts  in 
the  wild  lion-hearts  of  men.  Time  is  a camera  ohscura , through 
which  a man,  if  great  while  living,  becomes  ten-fold  greater  when 


104 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


dead.  Henceforward  he  exists  to  society  by  some  shining  trait 
of  beauty  or  utility  which  he  had;  and,  borrowing  his  propor- 
tions from  the  one  fine  feature,  we  finish  the  portrait  symmetri- 
cally. That  feature  is  the  small  real  star  that  gleams  out  of  the 
dark  vortex  of  the  ages  through  the  madness  of  rioting  fancy  and 
the  whirlwind-chaos  of  images,  expanding,  according  to  the  glass 
it  shines  through,  into  wondrous  thousand-fold  form  and  color. 

Such  is  the  foundation  of  fiction  in  general;  originating  as  a 
whole  from  no  single  point  as  to  country  or  to  time,  but  in  part 
springing  from  common  organic  causes,  and  in  part  travelling 
from  region  to  region,  on  airy  wing  scattering  the  seeds  of  its 
wild  flowers  imperceptibly  over  the  world,  from  the  gorgeous 
East  to  the  virgin  West  and  the  frozen  North.  Its  radical  types, 
much  as  the  root-words  of  speech,  are  amplified  and  compounded 
to  meet  the  demands  of  new  occasions,  transferred  from  one  sub- 
ject to  another,  and  embellished  according  to  the  taste,  temper, 
and  resources  of  the  artist.  Thus,  the  Macedonian  conqueror 
and  his  contemporaries  are  accoutred  in  the  garb  of  feudal- 
ism, and  his  wars  transformed  into  chivalrous  adventures.  The 
Naiads  of  Greece  differ  only  in  name  from  the  Nixen  of  Ger- 
many, and  the  Norwegian  Thor  is  brother  to  Olympian  Jove. 
The  Persian  Goblet  of  the  Sun  reappears  as  the  horn  of  the  Celtic 
Bran,  producing  whatever  liquor  is  called  for;  or  as  the  Saint 
Graal,  of  the  Round  Table, — for  which  is  reserved  the  ‘Seat  Per- 
ilous,’— the  miraculous  cup,  the  giver  of  sumptuous  banquets, 
the  healer  of  maladies,  to  the  pure  the  interpreter  of  the  will 
of  Heaven.  The  magic  ship  of  Odin,  which  could  be  folded  like 
a handkerchief,  becomes,  under  the  play  of  Homeric  fancy,  self- 
directing and  prophetic: 

‘ So  shalt  thou  instant  reach  the  realm  assign’d, 

In  wondrous  ships,  self-moved,  instinct  with  mind: 

No  helm  secures  their  course,  no  pilot  guides; 

Like  men  intelligent,  they  plough  the  tides, 

Conscious  of  every  coast  and  every  bay 
That  lies  beneath  the  sun’s  alluring  ray.’ 

The  story  of  Jack  and  Jill  is  a venerable  one  in  Icelandic  my- 
thology, and  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  has  found  eager  listeners  in 
Africa,  as  in  every  quarter  of  Europe.  All  the  machinery  of  the 
Iliad  is  reproduced  in  the  legend  of  Charlemagne,  and  if  in  his 
case  myth  were  not  controlled  and  rectified  by  history,  he  would 


MIDDLE-AGE  FICTION. 


105 


be  for  us,  under  his  adventitious  ornaments,  as  unreal  as  Aga- 
memnon. Thus  the  popular  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  indi- 
genous and  imported,  fostered  by  a like  credulity,  vision,  and 
mystery,  was  invested  with  the  same  tissue  of  marvels, — person- 
ified and  supernatural  agents,  heroes,  elves,  fairies,  dwarfs,  giants, 
enchanters,  spells,  charms,  and  amulets.  Written  in  the  Romance 
dialects  — principally  in  French  and  Italian  — tales  of  dimly  re- 
membered kings,  of  marvellous  agency  and  gallant  daring,  are 
hence  designated  as  Romances;  and  differ  from  the  similar 
productions  of  antiquity  chiefly  in  a change  of  names  and  places, 
with  an  admixture  of  the  refinement  and  pageantry  of  feudal 
religion  and  manners. 

Its  themes. — During  a long  period,  saintly  legends,  in  which 
self-torture  was  the  chief  measure  of  excellence,  formed  the 
guiding  ideals  of  Christendom;  and  the  first  romances  were  little 
more  than  legends  of  devotion,  containing  the  pilgrimage  of  an 
old  warrior.  As  chivalry  grew  in  splendor  and  fascination,  mar- 
tial exploits  were  added  to  his  youth,  his  religious  shaded  into  the 
heroic  character,  and  the  penitent  was  lost  in  the  knight-errant. 
Penance,  which  was  the  governing  image  of  the  one,  gradually 
became  the  remote  sequel  of  the  other,  till  it  was  almost  an  estab- 
lished rule  of  romance  for  the  knight  to  end  his  days  in  a hermit- 
age. By  the  reactionary  influence  of  worship,  valor  was  conse- 
crated, and  a Christian  soul  gave  tone  and  coloring  to  the  whole 
body  of  romantic  fiction.  Thus  the  Holy  Graal,  in  the  midst  of 
the  bright  animal  life  of  the  Arthur  legends,  became  a type  of 
the  mystery  of  Godliness.  Whatever  impure  man  sat  in  the  Seat 
Perilous  the  earth  swallowed.  When  men  became  sinful,  it,  visi- 
ble only  to  pure  eyes,  disappeared;  and  in  the  quest  for  it,  only 
the  spotless  Sir  Galahad  succeeded. 

A general  homage  to  the  fair,  independent  of  personal  attach- 
ment, forms  a distinguishing  and  most  important  element  of 
mediaeval  romance.  This  also,  in  its  best  development,  was  the 
offspring  of  the  Christian  dispensation.  True,  as  we  have  seen, 
its  rudiments  already  existed  in  the  deference  paid  to  the  female 
sex  by  the  Teutons,  who  believed  some  divine  quality  to  be  inher- 
ent in  their  women.  Thus  Tacitus  relates  that  Velleda,  a German 
prophetess,  held  frequent  conferences  with  the  Roman  generals; 
and  on  some  occasions,  on  account  of  the  sacredness  of  her  person, 


10G 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


was  placed  at  a great  distance  on  a high  tower,  whence,  as  an 
oracle,  she  conveyed  her  answers  by  a chosen  messenger.  But 
that  rapturous  adoration  of  woman  which  produced  the  spirit  of 
gallantry  was  the  inevitable  result  of  the  new  ideal  introduced  by 
Christianity,  which,  over  the  qualities  of  strength,  courage,  self- 
reliance,  and  patriotism,  enthroned  the  gentler  virtues  of  meek- 
ness, patience,  humility,  faith,  and  love.  This  was  no  other  than 
■change  from  a type  essentially  masculine  to  one  which  was  essen- 
tially feminine.  The  Virgin  Mary  was  exalted  by  the  Church  to 
a central  figure  of  devotion,  and  in  her  elevation,  woman,  from 
being  associated  with  ideas  of  degradation  and  of  sensuality,  rose 
into  a new  sphere,  and  became  the  object  of  a reverential  regard 
unknown  to  the  proudest  civilizations  of  the  past.  Love  was 
idealized.  The  moral  charm  of  female  excellence  was  felt.  Into 
a harsh  and  benighted  age  were  infused  a conception  of  gentle- 
ness and  of  purity,  a sense  of  delicacy  and  elegance,  around  which 
clustered  all  that  was  best  in  Europe.  Chivalry  took  systematic 
shape  as  the  adventurous  service  of  God  and  womankind.  The 
Crusades  were  its  first  outgrowth  in  action,  and  love-poetry  its 
first  symmetrical  expression  in  art.  Valor  was  exerted  to  protect 
the  innocent  from  violence,  to  succor  the  distressed,  to  release 
captive  beauty  from  embattled  walls.  The  knight,  fond  dreamer 
whom  the  dream  forever  fled,  turned  him  to  far  lands  and  con- 
flicts, to  merit  and  win  the  favor  of  his  fair  adored,  whose  point 
•of  honor  it  was  to  be  chaste  and  inaccessible.1 

But  loving  chivalry  for  its  nobleness,  let  us  not  be  blind  to  its 
folly  and  excess.  To  a bitter  winter’s  day  it  gave  the  tint  of 
.amethyst.  Over  the  darkness  it  threw  a cheering  light.  Its 
incentives,  exalted  and  sublime  as  they  were,  too  often  in  this 
unripe  civilization  made  its  possessors  implacable  and  infuriate. 
The  feudal  hero  did  less  than  he  imagined.  His  profession  of 
courtesy  and  courage  was  not  infrequently  the  brilliant  disguise 
that  concealed  tyranny  and  rapine.  A reduction  and  softening- 
down  of  a rough  and  lawless  period,  it  often  rose  to  fanaticism  or 

1 This  respectful  enthusiasm  for  woman  forms  one  of  the  most  remarkable  facts  in 
the  intellectual  development  of  Europe.  Warton  derives  it  from  Teutonic  manners: 
Ilallam,  from  the  secular  institutions  of  Rome  and  the  gay  idleness  of  the  nobility.  A 
profounder  philosophy  must  have  shown  them  that  more  influential  than  any  of  these 
causes,  or  all  combined,  were  the  prominence  given  by  Christianity  to  the  female 
virtues,  woman's  conspicuous  position  in  the  conversion  of  the  Empire  by  reason  of  the 
better  adaptation  of  her  genius  to  piety,  the  elevation  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  consequent 
change  from  an  ideal  type  especially  masculine  to  one  especially  feminine. 


LOVE-COURTS  OF  CHIVALRY. 


107 


sunk  into  gross  impurity.  From  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  until 
the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century,  it  had  its  Courts  of  Love, 
which,  sanctioning  much  that  the  courts  of  law  forbade,  instituted 
obligations  antagonistic  to  the  duties  of  domestic  life.  Here  love- 
verses  were  sung,  love-causes  were  heard,  and  judgments  rendered 
with  formal  citations  of  precedents.  They  had  a code,  said  to 
have  been  established  by  the  king  of  love,  and  found  by  a Breton 
cavalier  and  lover  in  Arthur’s  court,  tied  to  the  foot  of  a falcon. 
Its  first  rule  was  that  marriage  does  not  excuse  from  love,  and 
the  ladies’  courts  enacted  that  love  and  marriage  are  things 
wholly  asunder.  Thus,  A seeks  from  a lady  permission  to  love, 
and  is  told  that  she  already  has  a lover,  B,  but  willingly  will  take 
A when  B is  lost.  She  marries  B,  and  immediately,  in  fulfilment 
of  promise,  A claims  his  right  to  be  her  lover.  She  wishes  to 
withdraw,  but  is  sued,  and  the  court  decides  for  the  plaintiff, 
saying: 

‘We  do  not  venture  to  contradict  the  decision  of  the  Countess  of  Champagne,  who, 
by  a solemn  judgment,  has  pronounced  that  true  love  cannot  exist  between  those  who 
are  married  to  each  other.1  1 

The  central  figures  of  romance  were  Arthur1 2  and  the  Knights 
of  the  Round  Table,  Charlemagne  and  his  Peers,  the  heroes 3 of 
the  Crusades,  and  the  Anglo-Danish  Cycle,  the  most  famous  of 
which  were,  Havelock,  King  Horn,  and  Guy  of  Warwick.4 

A series  of  fictions  destined  to  operate  powerfully  on  the 
general  body  of  our  old  poetry,  was  a Latin  compilation  entitled 
Gesta  Homanorum , or  Deeds  of  the  Domans,  whose  stories, 
saintly,  chivalrous,  or  allegorical,  of  home-growth  or  transplanted 
from  the  East,  were  often  used  by  the  clergy  to  rouse  the  indif- 
ference and  relieve  the  languor  of  their  rude  and  simple  hearers. 
It  is  a characteristic  expression  of  the  manners  and  sentiments 
of  the  time.  Thus, — 

'•Chap.  LXIII.— The  garden  of  Vespasian’s  daughter.  All  her  lovers  are  obliged  to 
enter  this  garden  before  they  can  obtain  her  love,  hut  none  returns  alive.  The  garden 
is  haunted  by  a lion,  and  has  only  one  entrance  which  divides  into  so  many  windings 

1 The  Love-Courts,  so  far  from  being  a jest  or  idle  amusement,  as  Morley  under- 
stands them,  were  one  of  the  moral  and  social  phenomena  of  the  time,  springing  from 
the  prolonged  barbarity  of  the  feudal  marriage-tie.  The  lady-love,  almost  always  of 
high  rank,  frequently  an  heiress  in  her  own  right,  was  sure  to  be  disposed  of  for  pru- 
dential or  political  reasons  before  she  had  any  choice  in  the  matter;  and  the  sufferings 
to  which  women  were  exposed  as  wives,  explain  to  a certain  extent  the  adoration  which 
they  exacted  and  obtained  as  the  ladies  of  the  chevaliers. 

2 See  Tennyson’s  Idyls  of  the  King , in  which  these  characters  are  splendidly  por- 
trayed. 

3 Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  for  example,  one  of  the  most  celebrated. 

4 See  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


108 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


that  it  never  can  be  found  again.  At  length,  she  furnishes  a knight  with  a ball  or  clue 
of  thread,  and  teaches  him  how  to  foil  the  lion.  Having  achieved  this  adventure,  he 
marries  the  lady.’ 

'•Chap.  LXVI. — A knight  offers  to  recover  a lady's  inheritance,  which  had  been 
seized  by  a tyrant,  on  condition,  that  if  he  is  slain,  she  shall  always  keep  his  bloody 
armour  hanging  in  her  chamber.  He  regains  her  property,  although  he  dies  in  the 
attempt ; and  as  often  as  she  was  afterwards  sued  for  in  marriage,  before  she  gave  an 
answer,  she  returned  to  her  chamber,  and  contemplating  with  tears  her  deliverer’s 
bloody  armour,  resolutely  rejected  every  solicitation.’ 

'■Chap.  CIX.— [Best  illustrated  by  a like  story  of  the  Boy,  in  Boccaccio'*  Decameron .] 
A king  had  an  only  son.  As  soon  as  he  was  born,  the  physicians  declared  that  if  he 
was  allowed  to  see  the  sun  or  any  fire  before  he  arrived  at  the  age  of  twelve  years,  he 
would  be  blind.  The  king  commanded  an  apartment  to  be  hewed  within  a rock,  into 
which  no  light  could  enter;  and  here  he  shut  up  the  boy,  totally  in  the  dark,  yet  with 
proper  attendants,  for  twelve  years.  At  the  end  of  which  time,  he  brought  him  abroad 
from  his  gloomy  chamber,  and  placed  in  his  view  men,  women,  gold,  precious  stones, 
rich  garments,  chariots  of  exquisite  workmanship  drawn  by  horses  with  golden  bridles, 
heaps  of  purple  tapestry,  armed  knights  on  horseback,  oxen  and  sheep.  These  were  all 
distinctly  pointed  out  to  the  youth : but  being  most  pleased  with  the  women,  he  desired 
to  know  by  what  name  they  were  called.  An  esquire  of  the  king  jocosely  told  him  that 
they  were  devils  who  catch  men.  Being  brought  to  the  king,  he  was  asked  wrhich  he 
liked  best  of  all  the  fine  things  he  had  seen.  He  replied,  “The  devils  who  catch  men.”  ’ 

‘ Chap.  CXX. — King  Darius's  legacy  to  his  three  sons.  To  the  eldest  he  bequeaths  all 
his  paternal  inheritance:  to  the  second,  all  that  he  had  acquired  by  conquest:  and  to  the 
third,  a ring  and  necklace,  both  of  gold,  and  a rich  cloth.  All  the  three  last  gifts  were 
endued  with  magical  virtues.  Whoever  wore  the  ring  on  his  finger,  gained  the  love  or 
favor  of  all  whom  he  desired  to  please.  Whoever  hung  the  necklace  over  his  breast, 
obtained  all  his  heart  could  desire.  Whoever  sate  down  on  the  cloth,  could  be  instantly 
transported  to  any  part  of  the  world  which  he  chose.’ 

Not  unlike  the  lighter  stories  of  the  Gesta  were  the  fabliaux, 
short  familiar  pictures  of  society,  keyed  to  minor  occasions, 
usually  satirical,  and  levelling  their  wit  most  frequently  at  the 
ladies. 

Its  form. — The  versification  of  Latin,  it  is  well  known,  was 
based  upon  syllabic  quantity,  which  acknowledged  among  verse- 
sounds  but  two  possible  time-values  — the  long  and  the  short, 
of  which  the  former  was  strictly  to  the  latter  as  two  to  one.  The 
ratio,  moreover,  was  fixed,  so  that  a long  syllable  was  always 
long,  and  a short  one  always  short.  The  bar  or  foot  was  signal- 
ized by  the  rhythmic  accent  ; as  — 

‘Arma  virumque  can6,  Trojae  qui  primus  ab  6ris:' 
but  this  was  scarcely  the  accentuation  of  prose  or  familiar  utter- 
ance,— a difference  which  every  one  may  see  illustrated  in 
Shakespeare,  if  first  the  passage  be  supposed  to  conform  to  the 
typic  scheme.  Thus  — 

‘This  my  mean  task 

Would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious;  but 

The  mistress  which  I serve  quickens  what’s  dead.’ 


FORM  OF  THE  ROMANCE  POETRY. 


109 

Of  course,  it  would  be  absurd  to  read,  in  the  manner  of  cur- 
rent discourse:  ‘This  my  mean  task  would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as 
odious;  but  the  mistress  which  I serve  quickens  what’s  dead.’ 
The  distinction  of  ‘longs’  and  ‘shorts,’  never  attended  to  by  the 
uninstructed,  required  study  to  attain  it,  even  while  Latin  re- 
mained a living  tongue.  Just  as  the  people  corrupted  and  muti- 
lated the  classic  speech  founding  a new  upon  the  ruins  of  the 
old, — so,  under  the  shadow  of  this  cultured  poesy,  which  moved 
with  the  regularity  of  changeless  fate,  there  sprang  up,  away  in 
the  provinces  and  among  the  ignorant  everywhere,  an  humble 
growth  of  popular  song  which  knew  nothing  of  artificial  quanti- 
ties and  arbitrary  caesuras,  but  was  simply  — and  often  rudely  — 
rhymed  and  accented  more  nearly  after  the  style  of  actual 
speech;  and  when  the  foreign  graces  of  Roman  letters  perished 
with  the  Empire,  this  lowly,  indigenous  poetry  escaped  by  its 
insignificance,  and  began  to  increase.  Related  to  the  former,  as 
a dialect  to  its  parent,  it  imitated  the  ancient  syllabic  arrange- 
ment. Thus  the  spirited  trochaic  and  iambic 

measures  were  common  in  the  rhyming  chants  of  the  early^ 
Church.  The  Song  of  A Id  helm  shows  us  an  Anglo-Saxon  poet,, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighth  century,  versifying  Latin  words 
in  the  metre  of  the  Haven: 

‘Once  upon  a midnight  dreary 
Lector  caste  catholice 

While  I pondered  weak  and  weary.’ 

Atque  obses  athletics. 

‘Lector  caste  catholice  Usque  diram  Dornoniam 

Atque  obses  athletice  Per  carentum  Cornubiam 

Tuis  pulsatus  precibus  Florulentis  cespitibus 

Obnixe  flagitantibus  Et  faecundis  graminibus.’ 

This,  then,  was  the  poetic  form  which  began,  in  the  eleventh 
century,  to  give  expression  to  the  romantic  sentiments,  the  war- 
like genius  of  France, — a form  in  which  the  quantity  of  the 
verse-sounds  was  variable,  the  same  word  or  syllable  doing  the 
duty  of  a ‘ long  ’ or  a ‘ short,’  according  to  its  position  among 
neighboring,  sounds;  a form,  too,  in  which  the  bar  or  root  was 
more  especially  signalized  to  the  ear,  as  at  present,  by  the  stress 
of  current  utterance,  coinciding  with  the  rhythmic  accent,  and 
having  its  origin  in  the  logical  preeminence  of  the  root-syllable 
over  the  other  sounds  in  a word;  — a form  whose  beat,  revealing 


110 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


the  peculiar  genius  of  those  who  adopted  it,  was  less  the  pulse  of 
march-time  than  the  free  and  airy  swing  of  a waltz.  Themes 
wTere,  indeed,  supplied  from  all  quarters;  but  the  romance-setting 
which  was  common  to  them  all,  and  which  won  the  heart  and  , 
imagination  of  Europe,  was  French.  It  was  this  that  constituted 
for  the  French  literature  and  language,  at  the  height  of  the 
Middle'  Age,  a clear  predominance. 

Its  poets . — Of  this  literature  there  were  two  divisions,  corre- 
sponding to  the  two  dialects  of  France, — the  Langue  L>'>  Oc  and 
the  Langue  L )’  Oyl , so  named  from  the  words  for  yes , which  were 
oc  in  the  South  and  oyl  in  the  North.  The  first,  or  Provencal,  is 
irrecoverably  dead;  the  second,  or  Norman,  is  unalterably  estab- 
lished as  the  French  tongue.  The  poets  of  the  former  were 
called  Troubadours ; of  the  latter,  Trouveres , which  are  evi- 
dently dialectic  forms  of  the  same  word,  meaning  inventors. 
From  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  the  troubadours  were 
numerous  as  the  gay  insects  of  spring,  till  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth, when  they  came  to  an  end, — a lisping,  brilliant,  short- 
lived school  of  song.  Their  poetry  was  chiefly  lyric,  and  its  chief 
inspiration  was  love.  Each  selects  the  fair  object  of  his  melo- 
dious homage,  flings  himself,  body  and  soul,  into  love’s  thrall, 
exults  or  wails,  mopes  and  dreams,  sighs,  faints,  and  falls,  rises 
and  sings,  while  the  April  air,  the  nightingale,  and  the  dewy 
dawn  dilate  his  joy  by  accord  or  intensify  his  agony  by  contrast: 


‘Such  is  now  my  glad  elation. 

All  things  change  their  seeming; 

All  with  flowers,  white,  blue,  carnation. 
Hoary  frosts  are  teeming; 

Storm  and  flood  but  make  occasion 
For  my  happy  scheming; 

Welcome  is  my  song’s  oblation, 

Praise  outruns  my  dreaming. 

Oh,  ay!  this  heart  of  mine 
Owns  a rapture  so  divine. 

Winter  doth  in  blossoms  shine. 

Snow  with  verdure  gleaming! 

WThen  my  love  was  from  me  riven, 
Steadfast  faith  upbore  me; 

She  for  whom  I so  have  striven 
Seems  to  hover  o'er  me; 

All  the  joys  that  she  hath  given 
Memory  can  restore  me; 


All  the  days  I saw  her,  even 
Gladden  evermore  me. 

Ah,  yes!  I love  in  bliss; 

All  my  being  tends  to  this; 

Yea,  although  her  sight  I miss, 

And  in  France  deplore  me. 

Yet  if  like  a swallow  flying 
I might  come  unto  thee. 

Come  by  night  where  thou  art  lying, 
Verily  I’d  sue  thee, 

Dear  and  happy  lady,  crying, 

I must  die  or  woo  thee, 

Though  my  soul  dissolve  in  sighing 
And  my  fears  undo  me. 

Evermore  thy  grace  of  yore 
I with  folded  hands  adore. 

On  thy  glorious  colors  pore. 

Till  despair  goes  through  me.’ 


ROMANCE  POETS. 


Ill 


This  style  early  extended  itself  to  the  Northern  dialect. 
Abelard,  poet  and  philosopher,  was  the  first  of  recorded  name 
who  taught  the  banks  of  the  Seine  to  resound  a tale  of  love. 
Says  the  gifted  and  noble  Eloise,  of  whom  he  sung: 

‘You  composed  many  verses  in  amorous  measure,  so  sweet  both  in  their  language 
and  in  their  melody,  that  your  name  was  incessantly  in  the  mouths  of  all;  and  even  the 
most  illiterate  could  not  be  forgetful  of  you.  This  it  was  chiefly  that  made  women 
admire  you;  and,  as  most  of  these  songs  were  on  me  and  my  love,  they  made  me 
known  in  many  countries,  and  caused  many  women  to  envy  me.  Every  tongue  spoke 
of  your  Eloise;  every  street,  every  house,  resounded  with  my  name.’ 

The  poetry  of  the  North,  however,  was  mostly  epic,  with  his- 
torical and  romantic  themes;  written  for  the  luxurious  few, 
ambitious  and  astir  with  action;  expressing  and  circulating  the 
chivalrous  sentiments  of  life,  of  love,  and  of  loyalty.  The 
trou veres  — minstrel-poets  — were  the  idealizing  spirits  of  the 
knight,  who  in  hours  of  leisure  and  festivity  rehearsed  his  ex- 
ploits, in  transfigured  and  poetic  form,  to  his  flattered  and  de- 
lighted senses,  holding  before  him  a magic  mirror  in  which  he 
saw  with  what  nobleness  and  enchantment  he  was  invested.  No 
wonder  that  they  were  caressed  and  richly  rewarded, — first  in 
France,  where  they  were  native;  then  in  England,  where  they 
were  transplanted. 

Such,  then,  was  the  literature  at  this  time  domiciled  across 
the  Channel, — a literature  into  which  were  gathered  the  delicate 
fancies  of  the  Celtic  poems,  the  grand  ruins  of  the  German  epics, 
the  marvellous  splendors  of  the  conquered  East,  with  the  whole 
medley  of  imaginary  creatures; — a poetry  of  mailed  knights  and 
radiant  ladies,  of  polite  and  witty  love,  of  vague  reveries  and 
elegant  visions;  — a poetry  whose  facile  ideas,  expounded  and 
repeated  ad  infinitum , flow  through  interminable  and  insipid 
rhymes  with  the  careless  grace  of  a clear  and  purling  brook. 
Bent  on  pleasure,  brilliant  but  shallow,  it  will  die, — die  for  lack 
of  depth  and  perspective.  Society  itself  must  purge  or  perish 
when  it  becomes  operatic.  But  first  it  will  become  the  leaven 
which  throws  into  fermentation  the  now  torpid  elements  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  character,  secretly  and  silently  training  and  cos- 
tuming the  dramatis  personas  for  a new  and  nobler  entry  upon 
the  literary  stage.  Form  will  inherit  its  refinement,  its  grace, 
its  music;  thought,  its  piquancy,  order,  and  transparency.  Its 
heaped-up  tales,  incoherent  and  mutilated,  which  in  the  weak 


112 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


hands  of  the  trouveres  lie  like  rubbish  or  rough-hewn  stones, 
Chaucer  and,  above  all,  Spenser  will  build  into  a monument. 

Meanwhile,  ideas  are  imported.  The  Normans,  incapable  of 
great  poetry,  continue  to  copy,  arrange,  and  develop,  with  their 
eyes  glued  to  a series  of  exaggerated  and  colored  images.  Even 
the  English  become  rhymesters  in  French.  Several  write  the  first 
half  of  the  verse  in  English  and  the  second  in  French,- — as  if 
French  influence  were  at  once  moulding  and  oppressing  them! 
A few  employ  the  vernacular,  garnish  sermons  or  histories  with 
rhymes,  and  call  them  poems.  All  are  imitative  and  mediocre, 
repeating  what  they  imitate,  with  fewer  merits  and  greater 
faults.  Translations,  copies,  imitations, — there  is  little  or  noth- 
ing else.  First  of  the  new  singers  is  Layamon,  a monk,  who  in 
1205  translates  into  verse  and  amplifies  the  Unit , a subject  sup- 
plied him  from  a four-fold  source, — the  supposed  original  Celtic 
poem,  which  is  lost;  the  Latin  chronicle  of  Geoffrey;  the  dull- 
rhymed  rhapsody  of  Gaimar;  and  the  duller  paraphrase  of  Wace. 
Through  its  more  than  thirty-two  thousand  lines  the  babble  goes 
on,  in  irregular  verse,  sometimes  rhymed,  oftener  alliterative, 
mixing  both  systems,  and  employing  either  at  convenience;  in 
general  adhering,  by  its  rhythm  and  short  quick  phrases,  to  the 
fashion  of  the  ancient  Saxons,  without  their  fire;  never  rising  to 
interest  but  by  virtue  of  the  theme,  as  in  the  account  of  Arthur’s 
nativity: 


‘The  time  cO  the  wes  icoren, 
tha  wes  Arthur  iboren. 

Sone  swa  he  com  an  eorthe, 

allien  hine  inengen. 

heo  bigolen  that  child 

mid  galdere  swithe  stronge; 

heo  gene  him  mihte 

to  beon  bezst  alre  cnihten. 

heo  geuen  him  an  other  thing, 


that  he  scolde  beon  riche  king, 
heo  giuen  hi  that  thridde, 
that  he  scolde  longe  libben. 
heo  gifen  him  that  kine-bern 
custen  swithe  gode, 
that  he  wes  mete-custi 
of  alle  quikemonnen; 
this  the  alue  him  gef, 
and  al  swa  that  child  ithseh.’ 1 


Or,  again,  where  Arthur,  dying  of  fifteen  ‘dreadful  wounds,’  into 
the  least  of  which  ‘ one  might  thrust  two  gloves,’  is  transported 
after  death  in  a boat,  by  fairy  elves,  to  Avalon,  the  abode  of  their 
queen: 


1 The  time  came  that  was  chosen,  then  was  Arthur  born.  So  soon  as  he  came  on 
earth,  elves  took  him;  they  enchanted  the  child  with  magic  most  strong,  they  gave  him 
might  to  be  the  best  of  all  knights;  they  gave  him  another  thing,  that  he  should  be  a rich 
king;  they  gave  him  the  third,  that  he  should  live  long;  they  gave  to  him  the  prince 
virtues  most  good,  so  that  he  was  most  generous  of  all  men  alive.  This  the  elves  gave 
him,  and  thus  the  child  thrived. 


THE  NEW  SINGERS. 


113 


‘Arthur  was  wounded  wondrously  much.  There  came  to  him  a lad,  who  was  of  his 
kindred;  he  was  Cador’s  son  the  carl  of  Cornwall;  . . . Arthur  looked  on  him,  where 
he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  said  these  words,  with  sorrowful  heart:  “Constantine,  thou 
art  welcome;  thou  wert  Cador’s  son.  I give  thee  here  my  kingdom,  and  defend  thou  my 
Britons  ever  in  thy  life,  and  maintain  them  all  the  laws  that  have  stood  in  my  days,  and 
all  the  good  laws  that  in  Uther’s  days  stood.  And  I will  fare  to  Avalun,  to  the  fairest  of 
all  maidens,  to  Argante  the  queen,  an  elf  most  fair,  and  she  shall  make  my  wounds  all 
sound;  make  me  all  whole  with  healing  draughts.  And  afterwards  I will  come  to  my 
kingdom,  and  dwell  with  the  Britons  with  mickle  joy.”  Even  with  the  words  there 
approached  from  the  sea  that  was  a short  boat,  floating  with  the  waves;  and  two  women 
therein,  wondrously  formed;  and  they  took  Arthur  anon,  and  bare  him  quickly,  and  laid 
him  softly  down,  and  forth  they  gan  depart.  Then  was  it  accomplished  that  Merlin 
whilom  said,  that  mickle  care  should  be  of  Arthur’s  departure.  The  Britons  believe  yet 
that  he  is  alive,  and  dwelleth  in  Avalun  with  the  fairest  of  all  elves;  and  the  Britons 
ever  yet  expect  when  Arthur  shall  return.  Was  never  the  man  born,  of  ever  any  lady 
chosen,  that  knowetli  of  the  sooth,  to  say  more  of  Arthur.  But  whilom  was  a sage  liight 
Merlin;  he  said  with  words, — his  sayings  were  sooth, — that  an  Arthur  should  yet  come 
to  help  the  English  (Britons).’ 

Another  poem,  of  later  date,  1250,  with  no  merit  but  that  of 
just  design  and  regular  versification,  is  the  Ormulmn , by  Orm, 
also  a monk.  Its  plan  is  to  explain  to  the  people  the  spiritual 
import  of  the  daily  Service.  A religious  hand-book,  simple  and 
rustic,  it  marks  the  rise  of  English  religious  literature.  The  ideal 
monk  is  to  be  ‘a  very  pure  man,  and  altogether  without  property, 
except  that  he  shall  be  found  in  simple  meat  and  clothes.’  He 
will  have  ‘a  hard  and  stiff  and  rough  and  heavy  life  to  lead.  iVll 
his  heart  and  desire  ought  to  be  aye  toward  Heaven,  and  his 
Master  well  to  serve.’  This,  as  we  have  seen,  was  the  popular 
religion.  In  pardonable  vanity  the  author  says: 

‘This?  boc  iss  nemmnedd  Orrmulum 
Forrthi  thatt  Orrm  itt  wrohhte.’ 

Another  poem  — for  we  must  call  it  such,  if  phrases  ending 
with  the  same  sound  are  poetry — is  the  chronicle  of  Robert  of 
Gloucester,  written  in  Alexandrines  1 about  the  year  1300,  and 
deserving  notice  chiefly  as  the  most  ancient  professed  history  in 
the  English  language.  Beginning  with  the  siege  of  Troy,  it  ends 
with  the  death  of  Henry  III,  1272.  It  conveys  some  information 
of  value  upon  the  social  and  physical  condition  of  England  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  as  the  following  lines  suggest: 

‘From  South  to  North  he  ys  long  cigte  hondred  myle: 

And  foure  hondred  myle  brod  from  Est  to  West  to  wende, 

A mydde  tho  lond  as  yt  be,  and  nogt  as  by  the  on  ende. 

Plente  me  may  in  Engelond  of  alle  gode  y se, 

1 Verses  of  twelve  syllables,  or  six  iambic  feet.  The  Alexandrine , as  the  designation 
of  a particular  metre,  took  its  name  from  its  employment  in  the  popular  and  widely  cir- 
culated poems  on  Alexander  the  Great. 

8 


114 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD — THE  LITERATURE. 


Bute  folc  yt  for  gulte  other  yeres  the  worse  be. 

For  Engelond  ys  full  ynow  of  fruyt  and  of  tren, 

Of  wodes  and  of  parkes,  that  ioye  yt  ys  to  sen. 

Of  foules  and  of  bestes  of  wylde  and  tame  al  so, 

Of  salt  fysch  and  eche  fresch,  and  sayre  ryneres  ther  to. 

Of  welles  swete  and  colde  ynow,  of  lesen  and  of  mede.  [pastures 

Of  seluer  and  of  gold,  of  tyn  and  of  lede. 

Of  stel,  of  yrn  and  of  bras,  of  god  corn  gret  won. 

Of  whyte  and  of  wolle  god,  betere  ne  may  be  non. 

Wateres  he  hath  eke  gode  y now,  ac  at  be  fore  alle  other  thre  [ but 

Out  of  the  lond  in  to  the  see,  armes  as  thei  be. 

Ware  by  the  schippes  mowe  come  fro  the  se  and  wende, 

And  brynge  on  lond  god  y now,  a boute  in  eche  ende.’ 


But  shall  we  look  upon  a desert  of  stumps,  and  exclaim,  ‘O 
my  soul,  what  beauty  ! ’ What  is  here  in  these  metrical  Lives  of 
Saints,  “rhymed  dissertations  and  chronicles,  which  are  so  well 
prolonged  and  so  void  of  pleasure  ? What  but  poverty  of  intel- 
lect and  taste?  Wholly  destitute  of  poetical  merit,  unable  to 
develop  a continuous  idea,  they  disregard  historical  truth  without 
securing  the  graces  of  fable  by  the  sacrifice.  They  are,  it  is  true, 
of  interest  to  the  lover  of  antiquities,  and  of  importance  to  the 
linguist,  as  are  fossil  remains  to  the  geologist.  They  exhibit  the 
physiology  of  the  English  speech  in  its  transition  or  larva  and 
chrysalis  states.  Thus  the  13rut,  though  rendered  from  the 
French,  contains  fewer  than  fifty  Norman  words.  A remarkable 
peculiarity  of  its  grammar  is  the  use  of  the  pronoun  his  as  a sign 
of  the  possessive  case,  as  when  in  more  modern  English  it  was 
not  unusual  to  write  John  his  hook.  The  Orrnulum  differs  from 
the  Anglo-Saxon  models  in  wanting  alliteration,  and  from  the 
Norman-French  in  wanting  rhyme.  It  contains  a few  words  from 
the  ecclesiastical  Latin,  but  scarcely  a trace  of  Norman  influ- 
ence. It  has  a peculiar  device  of  spelling,  consistent  and  uni- 
form,— the  doubling  of  the  consonant  after  every  short  vowel, — 
to  indicate  what,  at  a period  of  great  confusion,  the  author 
deemed  the  standard  pronunciation.  Its  immediate  purpose, 
perhaps,  was  to  guide  the  half-Normanized  priests  when  the 
verses  w7ere  read  aloud  for  the  good  or  pleasure  of  the  people. 
On  adherence  to  its  orthography  by  readers  and  copyists,  it  lays 
great  stress: 


‘And  whase  willen  shall  this  booke 
Eft  other  sithe  writcn, 

Him  biddc  icc  that  he’t  write  right 
Swa  sum  this  booke  him  teacheth.’ 


And  whoso  shall  wish  this  book 
After  other  time  to  write, 

Him  bid  I that  he  it  write  right, 
So  as  this  book  him  teaclieth. 


POVERTY  OF  INTELLECT  AND  TASTE. 


115 


In  Robert’s  Chronicle  of  England , the  infusion  of  Norman 
words  is  still  not  more  than  four  or  five  per  cent,  while  it  repre- 
sents the  language  in  a decidedly  more  advanced  stage.  He 
distinctly  states  the  prevalence  of  French  in  his  own  day: 

‘Vor  bote  a man  conthe  French,  me  tolth  of  him  well  lute 
For  unless  a man  know  French , one  talketh  of  him  little ; 

Ac  lowe  men  holdeth  to  Englyss,  and  to  her  kunde  speche  zute 
But  low  men  hold  to  English , and  to  their  natural  speech  yet.' 

Let  us  omit  The  Lay  of  Havelok  the  Dane , an  orphan  who 
marries  an  English  princess;  King  Horn , who,  thrown  into  a 
boat  when  a lad,  is  wrecked  upon  the  coast  of  England,  and, 
becoming  a knight,  reconquers  the  kingdom  of  his  father;  Sir 
Gag,  who  rescues  enchanted  knights,  cuts  down  a giant,  chal- 
lenges and  kills  the  Sultan  in  his  tent;  Alexander,  the  great 
hero  of  the  heathen  world,  whose  forgotten  glory,  after  the 
downfall  of  the  Empire,  was  revived  on  the  Levantine  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  then  in  Western  Europe;  — all  which  are 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  restored  or  adapted  from  the 
French;  all  which,  while  they  serve  to  illustrate  the  continuity 
of  the  English  tongue,  the  growth  of  the  French  romantic  man- 
ner of  story-telling  as  the  years  grow  nearer  to  1300,  and  the 
demand  of  the  Middle  Age  for  glare  and  startling  events,  are 
utterly  without  power  in  delineating  character  or  unity  of  con- 
ception in  plan  and  execution. 

In  the  midst  of  the  story-tellers  are  satirists  who,  writing* 
mostly  in  French  or  Latin,  censure  political  abuses  and  Church 
corruptions,  sometimes  in  a tone  of  mournful  seriousness,  as  if 
the  degradation  to  which  the  profession  was  reduced  by  the 
depravity  of  the  higher  clergy  was  deeply  felt;  sometimes  with 
more  force  than  respect  or  elegance.  Thus  an  English  poem  of 
the  Land  of  Cockaigne, — from  coquina , a kitchen, — a form  of 
satire  current  in  many  parts  of  Europe: 

‘List,  for  now  my  tale  begins,  There  the  Pope  for  my  offence, 

How  to  rid  me  of  my  sins,  Bade  me  straight  in  penance,  thence, 

Once  I journey’d  far  from  home,  Wandering  onward  to  attain 

To  the  gate  of  holy  Rome.  The  wondrous  land  that  hight  Cockaigne.’ 

We  are  told  of  a region  free  from  trouble,  where  the  rivers  run 
with  oil,  milk,  wine,  and  honey;  wherein  the  white  and  grey 
monks  have  an  abbey  of  which  the  walls  are  built  of  pasties, 
which  are  paved  with  cakes,  and  have  puddings  for  pinnacles. 


116 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


Roasted  geese  fly  about  crying,  ‘Geese  all  hot’!  This  is  the  tri- 
umph of  gluttony. 

Here,  also,  like  prophecies  of  the  perfect  bloom,  are  some 
bright  lyrics, — religious,  amatory,  pastoral,  warlike.  The  chival- 
ric  adoration  of  the  sovereign  Lady,  the  real  deity  of  mediaeval 
society,  breathes  in  this  pleasing  hymn,  which  bears  witness  to 
its  origin: 


‘Blessed  beo  thu,  lavedi, 
Ful  of  hovenc  blisse; 
Sweet  flur  of  parais, 
Moder  of  milternisse  . . . 
I-blessed  beo  thu,  Lavedi, 
So  fair  and  so  briht; 


A1  min  hope  is  uppon  the, 

Bi  day  and  bi  nicht  . . . 

Bricht  and  scene  quen  of  storre, 
So  me  liht  and  lere. 

In  this  false  fikele  world. 

So  me  led  and  steore.' 


What  could  be  farther  from  the  Saxon  sentiment?  A poem 
of  some  interest  as  the  earliest  imaginative  piece  of  native  inven- 
tion after  the  Conquest  is  The  Owl  and  the  Nightingale,  in 
octosyllabic  rhyme,  composed  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.  It  is  a 
dispute  between  the  two  birds  as  to  which  has  the  finer  voice. 
After  much  reciprocal  abuse,  the  question  of  superiority  is  re- 
ferred to  the  author. 

Love  of  nature  is  deep  and  national.  To  the  Frenchman  it  is 
a light  gladsomeness,  soon  gone,  suggesting  only  a pleasing 
couplet  as  it  passes, — ‘ Now  is  winter  gone,  the  hawthorn  blos- 
soms, the  rose  expands,  the  birds  do  voice  their  vows  in  melody.’ 
To  the  Englishman,  all  sad  and  moral,  the  circling  seasons  sug- 
gest a spiritual  lesson, — chiefly  ‘vanity  of  vanities.’  So  is  the 
following,  of  the  reign  of  Edward  I,  truly  English  in  spirit: 


‘Wynter  wakeneth  al  my  care, 

Nou  this  leves  waxeth  bare, 

Ofte  y sike  ant  mourne  sare, 

When  hit  cometh  in  my  thoht 

Of  this  worldes  joie,  hou  hit  goth  al  to  noht. 


Now  hit  is,  and  now  hit  nys, 

Also  hit  nere  y-wys, 

That  moni  mon  seith  soth  his  ys, 

Al  goth  bote  Godes  wille, 

Alle  we  shule  deye,  thath  us  like  ylle.  » 

Al  that  gren  me  graueth  grene, 

Nou  hit  faleweth  al  by-dene; 

Jhesu,  help  that  hit  be  sene. 

And  shild  us  from  helle, 

For  y not  whider  y shal,  ne  hou  longe  her  duelle.’ 

Yeomen  and  harpers  throw  off  some  spirited  products;  but  their 
songs,  first  ignored,  then  transformed,  reach  us  only  in  a late 


RISE  OF  ENGLISH  PROSE. 


117 


edition,  as  Robin  Hood , Chevy  Chase , and  the  Nut-Brown 
Maid. 

Enough.  The  Saxon  stock,  stripped  of  its  buds  by  the  Nor- 
man axe,  grows,  though  feebly.  An  occasional  shoot  displays 
genuine  England  to  the  light,  as  a vast  rock  crops  up  here  and 
there  from  beneath  the  soil. 

Prose. — When  the  preservation  of  literary  compositions  by 
writing  has  given  opportunity  for  their  patient  study,  the  next 
step  is  possible, — the  use  of  prose;  and  histories,  rude  and  meagre, 
serving  rather  to  fix  a date  than  to  illuminate  it,  are  its  principal 
products.  Nature  makes  men  poets, — art  makes  them  philoso- 
phers and  critics. 

English  prose  looks  fondly  back  to  Alfred,  in  his  translations 
of  Bede,  for  its  true  parentage.  As  Whitby,  in  the  person  of 
Caedmon,  is  the  cradle  of  English  poetry,  so  Winchester  is  that  of 
English  prose.  Failing  soon  after,  it  is  revived  in  ^Elfric,  who, 
turning  into  English  the  first  seven  books  and  part  of  Job,  becomes 
the  first  large  translator  of  the  Bible;  repressed  by  the  Danes, 
and  again  by  the  Normans,  it  dies  in  the  death  of  the  Saxon 
Chronicle , nor  lives  again.  in  any  extended  form  till  the  reign  of 
Edward  III. 

There  may  be  mentioned  a curious  work  in  the  vernacular, 
belonging  to  the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century, — the  Ancren 
Riwle , that  is,  the  Anchoresses ’ Rule , a code  of  monastic  precepts 
for  the  guidance  of  a small  nunnery,  or  rather  religious  society  of 
ladies: 

‘ Ye  lie  schulen  eten  vleschs  ne  seim  buten  ine  muchele  secnesse;  other  hwoso  is 
euer  feble  eteth  potage  blitheliche;  and  wunieth  on  to  Intel  drunch.  . . . Ye,  mine 
leone  snstren.  ne  schnlen  babben  no  best,  bnte  kat  one.  . . . Nexst  fleshe  ne  scbal  mon 
werien  no  linene  cloth,  bute  yif  hit  beo  of  herde  and  of  greate  heorden.  Stamin  habbe 
hwose  wule;  and  hwose  wille  mei  beon  bnten.  Ye  schnlen  liggen  in  on  heater,  and 
i-gurd.  . . . Ower  schone  beon  greate  and  warme.  Ine  snmer  ye  habbeth  leane  norto 
gon  and  sitten  barnot.  ...  Ye  ne  schnlen  senden  lettres,  ne  underuon  lettres,  ne  writen, 
buten  leane.  Ye  schulen  beon  i-dodded  four  sithen  ithe  yere,  norto  lihten  ower  heaued: 
and  ase  ofte  i-leten  blod;  and  oftere  yif  neod  is;  and  hwoso  mei  beon  ther  withuten,  ich 
hit  mei  wel  i-tholien.’ 1 

1 Ye  shall  not  eat  flesh  nor  lard  but  in  much  sickness;  or  whoso  is  ever  feeble  may 
eat  potage  blithely;  and  accustom  yourselves  to  little  drink.  . . . Ye,  my  dear  sisters, 
shall  have  but  one  cat.  . . . Next  the  flesh  ye  shall  wear  no  linen  cloth,  but  if  it  be  of 
hard  and  of  coarse  canvas.  Whoso  will  may  have  a shirt  of  woolen  and  linen,  and 
whoso  will  may  be  without.  Ye  shall  lie  in  a garment  and  girt.  . . . Let  your  shoes  be 
large  and  warm.  In  summer  ye  are  permitted  to  go  and  sit  bare-foot.  ...  Ye  shall  not 
send  letters,  nor  receive  letters,  nor  write  without  leave.  Ye  shall  be  cropped  four  times 
in  the  year,  to  lighten  your  head;  and  as  often  bled,  oftener  if  need  be;  but  whoso  may 
dispense  with  this,  well. 


118 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


Again : 

‘The  slowe  litli  and  slepeth  ithe  deofles  berme,  ase  his  deore  deorling;  and  te  deouel 
leieth  his  tutel  adun  to  his  earen,  and  tnteleth  him  al  thet  he  euer  wule.  . . . The  giure 
glutun  is  thes  fondes  manciple.  Uor  he  stiketh  euer  ithe  celere,  other  ithe  kuchene. 
His  heorte  is  ithe  disches ; his  thouht  is  al  ithe  neppe ; his  lif  ithe  tunne ; his  soule  ithe 
crocke.1 1 1 . . . 


History.  — Between  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  history 
are  legendary  traditions,  credulous  chronicles,  barren  annals,  the 
glitter  and  clatter  of  kings  and  warriors,  luxuriant,  tangled,  and 
fanciful  narratives.  When,  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  credulity  and 
looseness  of  thought  are  universal,  it  is  impossible  for  men  to 
engage  in  a philosophic  study  of  the  past,  or  even  to  record  with 
accuracy  what  is  taking  place  around  them.  So  great  is  the 
general  aptitude  for  the  marvellous,  that  even  the  ablest  writers 
are  compelled  to  believe  the  most  childish  absurdities.  Thus,  it 
was  well  known  that  the  city  of  Naples  was  founded  on  eggs; 
also,  that  the  order  of  St.  Michael  was  instituted  in  person  by  the 
archangel,  who  was  himself  the  first  knight.  The  Tartars,  it  was- 
taught,  proceeded  from  Tartarus,  which  some  theologians  said 
was  an  inferior  kind  of  hell,  but  others  declared  to  be  hell  itself. 
Hence,  as  the  Turks  were  identical  with  the  Tartars,  it  was  only 
a proper  and  natural  consequence  that,  since  the  Cross  had  fallen 
into  Turkish  hands,  all  Christian  children  had  ten  teeth  less  than 
formerly.  Here  is  a story  which  Anselm,  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, one  of  the  greatest  and  most  vigorous  minds  in  the 
twelfth  century,  tells  of  a certain  St.  Kieran.  The  saint,  with 
thirty  of  his  companions,  has  been  executed  in  a wood  by  order 
of  a Pagan  prince,  and  their  bodies  are  left  lying  there  for  the 
wolves  and  the  wild  birds.  Note  the  fact,  as  the  grave  and  good 
Anselm  has  really  ascertained  it: 

‘ But  now  a miracle,  such  as  was  once  heard  of  before  in  the  Church  in  the  person  of 
the  holy  Denis,  was  again  wrought  by  Divine  Providence  to  preserve  the  bodies  of  these 
saints  from  profanation.  The  trunk  of  Kieran  rose  from  the  ground,  and  selecting  first 


1 The  sluggard  lieth  and  sleepeth  in  the  devil's  bosom,  as  his  dear  darling;  and  the 

devil  applieth  his  mouth  to  his  ears,  and  tells  him  whatever  he  will.  [For,  this  is  certainly 
the  case  with  everyone  who  is  not  occupied  in  anythin"  good:  the  devil  assiduously 
talks,  and  the  idle  lovingly  receive  his  lessons.  He  that  is  idle  and  careless  is  the  devil's 
bosom-sleeper:  but  he  shall  on  Doomsday  be  fearfully  startled  with  the  dreadful  sound 
of  the  angels’  trumpets,  and  shall  awaken  in  terrible  amazement  in  hell.  “Arise,  ye 
dead,  who  lie  in  graves:  arise,  and  come  to  the  Saviour’s  judgment.”]  . . . The  greedy 
glutton  is  the  devil’s  purveyor;  for  he  always  haunts  the  cellar  or  the  kitchen.  His  heart 
is  in  the  dishes;  all  his  thought  is  of  the  table-cloth;  his  life  is  in  the  tun,  his  soul  in  the 
pitcher.  [He  cometh  into  the  presence  of  his  lord  besmutted  and  besmeared,  with  a dish 
in  one  hand  and  a bowl  in  the  other.  He  talks  much  incoherently,  and  staggereth  like  a 
drunken  man  who  seemeth  about  to  fall,  looks  at  his  great  belly,  and  the  devil  laughs  so 
that  he  bursteth.] 


HISTORICAL  METHOD  — LEGENDARY  STAGE. 


119 


his  own  head,  and  carrying  it  to  a stream,  and  there  carefully  washing  it,  and  afterwards 
performing  the  same  sacred  office  for  each  of  his  companions,  giving  each  body  its  own 
head,  he  dug  graves  for  them  and  buried  them,  and  last  of  all  buried  himself.’ 

With  the  appetite  for  the  fabulous  and  superhuman  is  coupled 
— as  if  the  heart  were  searching  for  its  dead  kindred  — the  love 
of  antiquity.  Hence  history,  in  its  first  efforts,  usually  begins  at 
a very  remote  period,  and  traces  events  in  an  unbroken  series, 
even  from  the  moment  when  Adam  passed  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

Add  to  this,  that  the  historians  were  essentially  theological, — 
priests,  who  lived  remote  from  public  affairs,  considered  the  civil 
transactions  as  entirely  subordinate  to  the  ecclesiastical,  were 
strongly  infected  with  the  love  of  wonder,  and  conceived  it  their 
business  to  enforce  belief  rather  than  to  encourage  inquiry.  Thus 
Matthew  Paris,  the  most  eminent  historian  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  to  explain  why  the  Mahometans  abominate  pork,  informs 
us  that  Mahomet,  having  on  one  occasion  gorged  himself  with 
food  and  drink  till  he  was  in  an  insensible  condition,  fell  asleep 
on  a dunghill,  and  in  this  disgraceful  state  was  attacked  and 
suffocated  by  a litter  of  pigs;  for  which  reason  his  followers  have 
ever  since  refused  to  partake  of  their  flesh.  This  celebrated 
writer  tells  us  further,  to  account  for  the  origin  of  the  Mahom- 
etan sect,  that  Mahomet  was  originally  a cardinal,  and  became  a 
heretic  only  because  he  failed  in  his  design  of  being  elected  pope. 

Perhaps  the  most  reliable  standard  of  the  knowledge  and 
opinions  of  these  Ages  of  Faith  is  Geoffrey’s  History  of  the 
Britons  (1147).  This  Welsh  monk  ascertains  that  after  the 
capture  of  Troy,  Ascanius  fled  from  the  city,  and  begat  a son, 
who  became  father  to  Brutus;  that  Brutus,  having  extirpated  the 
race  of  giants,  founded  London,  settled  the  affairs  of  the  island, 
and  called  it,  after  himself,  by  the  name  of  Britain.  A long  line 
of  kings  is  then  led  from  oblivion  into  day,  most  of  whom  are 
famous  for  their  abilities,  and  some  for  the  prodigies  which  occur 
in  their  time.  Thus  during  the  reign  of  Rivallo  ‘it  rained  blood 
three  days  together,  and  there  fell  vast  swarms  of  flies.’  When 
Morvidus,  £a  most  cruel  tyrant,’  was  on  the  throne, — 

‘ There  came  from  the  coasts  of  the  Irish  sea,  a most  cruel  monster,  that  was  contin- 
ually devouring  the  people  upon  the  sea-coasts.  As  soon  as  he  heard  of  it,  he  ventured 
to  go  and  encounter  it  alone ; when  he  had  in  vain  spent  all  his  darts  upon  it,  the  monster 
rushed  upon  him,  and  with  open  jaws  swallowed  him  up  like  a small  fish.’ 


120 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


The  dauntless  Arthur  kills  a giant  from  the  shores  of  Spain, 
against  whom  armies  were  able  to  do  nothing:, — 

O 0 7 

‘For  whether  they  attacked  him  by  sea  or  land,  he  either  overturned  their  ships  with 
vast  rocks,  or  killed  them  with  several  sorts  of  darts,  besides  many  of  them  that  he  took 
and  devoured  half  alive.1 

Pausing,  in  the  historical  account,  to  relate  the  prophecy  of  Mer- 
lin,  he  tells  us  how,  by  the  prophet’s  advice,  a jDond  was  drained, 
at  whose  bottom  were  two  hollow  stones,  and  in  them  two  drag- 
ons asleep,  which  hindered  the  building  of  Vortigern’s  tower; 
then, — 

‘As  Vortigern,  king  of  the  Britons,  was  sitting  upon  the  bank  of  the  drained  pond, 
the  two  dragons,  one  of  which  was  white,  the  other  red,  came  forth,  and,  approaching 
one  another,  began  a terrible  fight,  and  cast  forth  fire  with  their  breath.  But  the  white 
dragon  had  the  advantage,  and  made  the  other  fly  to  the  end  of  the  lake.  And  he, 
for  grief  at  his  flight,  renewed  the  assault  upon  his  pursuer,  and  forced  him  to  retire. 
After  this  battle  of  the  dragons,  the  king  commanded  Ambrose  Merlin  to  tell  him  what 
it  portended.  Upon  which  he,  bursting  into  tears,  delivered  what  his  prophetical  spirit 
suggested  to  him,  as  follows: 

“Woe  to  the  red  dragon,  for  his  banishment  hastencth  on.  His  lurking  holes  shall 
be  seized  by  the  white tiragon,  which  signifies  the  Saxons  whom  you  invited  over;  but 
the  red  denotes  the  British  nation,  which  shall  be  oppressed  by  the  white.  Therefore 
shall  its  mountains  be  levelled  as  the  valleys,  and  the  rivers  of  the  valleys  shall  run 
with  blood.  The  exercise  of  religion  shall  be  destroyed,  and  churches  be  laid  open  to 
ruin.”  1 

The. history  is  brought  down  to  the  close  of  the  seventh  century, 
when  the  Britons,  sunk  in  barbarism  and  no  longer  worthy  of 
their  name,  were  known  only  as  ‘Welshmen’: 

‘But  as  for  the  kings  that  have  succeeded  among  them  in  Wales,  since  that  time,  I 
leave  the  history  of  them  to  Caradoc  of  Lancarvan,  my  contemporary;  as  I do  also  the 
kings  of  the  Saxons  to  William  of  Malmesbury,  and  Henry  of  Huntington.  But  I advise 
them  to  be  silent  concerning  the  kings  of  the  Britons,  since  they  have  not  that  book 
written  in  the  British  tongue,  which  Walter,  archdeacon  of  Oxford,  brought  out  of 
Brittany,  and  which  being  a true  history,  published  in  honour  of  those  princes,  I have 
thus  taken  care  to  translate.1 

It  is  here  that  we  first  read  of  Gorboduc,  whose  story  will  be 
the  theme  of  the  earliest  English  tragedy ; of  Lear  and  his 
daughters;  and,  above  all,  of  King  Arthur  as  the  recognized 
hero  of  national  story. 

A hundred  years  after  its  first  publication,  this  book  was 
generally  adopted  by  writers  on  English  history;  and,  for  its 
repudiation  in  the  sixteenth  century,  Vergil  was  considered  as 
a man  almost  deprived  of  reason.  A book  thus  stamped  with 
every  mark  of  approbation  is  surely  no  bad  measure  of  the  ages 
in  which  it  was  accredited  and  admired. 

Mere  annalists  abounded,  who  set  down  minutely,  in  chrono- 


ANNALISTS  — THE  SAXON  CHRONICLE. 


121 


logical  order,  what  their  eyes  have  seen  and  their  ears  have 
heard,  till  the  reader  is  overpowered  with  weariness;  only  the 
dross  of  history;  facts,  in  particles,  in  mass,  without  the  abstract 
truth  which  interpenetrates  them,  and  lies  latent  among  them, 
like  gold  in  the  ore;  dreams,  portents,  warnings,  and  the  whole 
progeny  of  superstition.  Here  is  the  style  of  the  chronicler  in 
the  tenth  century; 

‘538.  When  he  had  reigned  four  years,  the  sun  was  eclipsed  from  the  first  hour  of 
the  day  to  the  third. 

540.  Again,  two  years  after,  the  sun  was  eclipsed  for  half  an  hour  after  the  third 
hour,  so  that  the  stars  were  everywhere  visible  in  the  sky. 

661.  After  three  years,  Kenwalk  again  fought  a battle  near  the  town  of  Pontes- 
bury,  and  took  prisoner  Wulfhere,  son  of  Penda,  at  Ashdown,  when  he  had  defeated 
his  army. 

671.  After  one  year  more,  there  was  a great  pestilence  among  the  birds,  so  that 
there  was  an  intolerable  stench  by  sea  and  land,  arising  from  the  carcasses  of  birds, 
both  small  and  great. 

674.  After  one  year,  Wulfhere,  son  of  Penda,  and  Kenwalk  fought  a battle  among 
themselves  in  a place  called  Bedwin. 

677.  After  three  years  a comet  was  seen. 

729.  At  the  end  of  one  year  a comet  appeared,  and  the  holy  bishop  Egbert  died. 

733.  Two  years  after  these  things,  king  Ethelbald  received  under  his  dominion 
the  royal  vill  which  is  called  Somerton.  The  same  year  the  sun  was  eclipsed. 

734.  After  the  lapse  of  one  year,  the  moon  appeared  as  if  stained  with  spots  of 
blood,  and  by  the  same  omen  Tatwine  and  Bede  departed  this  life.' 

That  monument  of  English  prose  which  is  at  once  most  vener- 
able and  most  valuable  is  the  Saxon  Chronicle,  compiled  from 
the  monastic  annals  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  in  891, 
and  carried  forward  in  the  monasteries  by  various  hands  until 
the  accession  of  Henry  II,  in  the  year  1154.  Of  value  as  a sta- 
tistic epitome  of  English  history  during  that  long  period,  its 
chief  value,  perhaps,  consists  in  the  bird’s-eye  view  which  it 
gives  of  linguistic  changes  from  year  to  year,  from  century  to 
century,  until,  as  the  last  records  are  by  contemporary  writers, 
old  English  almost  melts  into  modern.  At  distant  intervals, 
when  inspired  by  the  transitory,  the  sombre,  and  the  mysterious, 
it  rises  to  a pathos  like  this  on  William  the  Conqueror: 

* Sharp  death,  that  passes  neither  by  rich  men  nor  poor,  seized  him  also.  Alas,  how 
false  and  how  uncertain  is  this  world’s  weal ! He,  that  was  before  a rich  king  and  lord 
of  many  lands,  had  not  then  of  all  his  land  more  than  a space  of  seven  feet;  and  he, 
that  was  whilom  enshrouded  in  gold  and  gems,  lay  there  covered  with  mould.’ 

But,  in  general,  it  is  vapid,  empty,  and  uncritical,  noting  in  the 
same  lifeless  tone  the  important  and  the  trivial,  without  the 
slightest  tinge  of  dramatic  color  or  of  discrimination.  Blood 
gushes  out  of  the  earth  in  Berkshire  near  the  birthplace  of 


122 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


Alfred.  In  Peterborough,  under  a Norman  abbot,  horns  are 
heard  at  dead  of  night,  and  spectral  huntsmen  are  seen  to  ride 
through  the  woods.  The  following  extracts  are  fair  specimens: 

‘449.  In  this  year  Martian  and  Valentinian  succeeded  to  the  empire  and  reigned 
seven  winters.  And  in  their  days  Hengest  and  Horsa,  invited  by  Wyrtgeorn,  king  of  the 
Britons,  sought  Britain,  on  the  shore  which  is  named  Ypwines  fleot;  first  in  support  of 
the  Britons,  but  afterwards  they  fought  against  them. 

463.  In  this  year  Hengest  and  JEsc  fought  against  the  Welsh  and  took  countless 
booty;  and  the  Welsh  fled  from  the  Angles  as  fire. 

509.  In  this  year  St.  Benedict  the  abbot,  father  of  all  monks,  went  to  heaven. 

661.  In  this  year  was  the  great  destruction  of  birds. 

792.  Here  Offa,  king  of  Mercia,  commanded  that  King  Ethelbert  should  be  beheaded ; 
and  Osred,  who  hud  been  king  of  the  Northumbrians,  returning  home  after  his  exile,  was 
apprehended  and  slain  on  the  18th  day  before  the  Calends  of  October.  His  body  is  depos- 
ited at  Tinemouth.  Ethelred  this  year,  on  the  3d  day  before  the  Calends  of  October,  took 
unto  himself  a new  wife  whose  name  was  Elfreda. 

793.  In  this  year  dire  forwarnings  came  over  the  land  of  the  Northumbrians,  and 
miserably  terrified  the  people:  there  were  excessive  whirlwinds  and  lightnings,  and  fiery 
dragons  were  seen  flying  in  the  air.  A great  famine  soon  followed  these  tokens ; and  a 
little  after  that,  in  the  same  year,  on  the  6th  of  the  Ides  of  January,  the  havoc  of  heathen 
men  miserably  destroyed  God’s  church  at  Lindisfarne,  through  rapine  and  slaughter. 
And  Sicga  died  on  the  8th  of  the  Cal.  of  March.’ 

Centuries  will  pass  before  history,  which  thus  begins  in  ro- 
mance and  babble,  will  end  in  essay;  before  this  enfeebled  intel- 
lect will  be  able  to  rise  from  particular  facts  to  discover  the  laws 
by  which  those  facts  are  governed,  exhibiting  by  judicious  selec- 
tion, rejection,  and  arrangement,  the  orderly  progress  of  society 
and  the  nature  of  man. 

Theology. — It  was  a favorite  saying  among  the  ancients, 
that  death  is  ‘a  law  and  not  a punishment.’  It  was  a root- 
doctrine  of  the  early  Christians  that  disobedience  — the  fruit  of 
the  forbidden  tree — ‘brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our 
woe.’ 

The  first  represented  man  as  pure  and  innocent  till  his  will  has 
sinned;  the  second,  as  under  sentence  of  condemnation  at  the 
moment  of  birth.  Plutarch  had  said  that  no  funeral  sacrifices 
were  offered  for  infants,  ‘because  it  is  irreligious  to  lament  for 
those  pure  souls  who  have  passed  into  a better  life  and  a happier 
dwelling-place.’  ‘Be  assured,’  writes  a saint  of  the  sixth  century, 
‘that  not  only  men  who  have  obtained  the  use  of  their  reason, 
but  children  who  have  begun  to  live  in  their  mother’s  womb  and 
have  there  died,  or  who,  just  born,  have  passed  away  without  the 
sacrament  of  holy  baptism  administered  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  must  be  punished  by  eternal  tor- 


THEOLOGY  — HERESY. 


123 


ture.’  The  opinion  so  graphically  expressed  by  a theologian  who 
said  ‘he  doubted  not  that  there  were  infants  less  than  a span 
long  crawling  about  the  floor  of  hell,’  was  held  with  great  confi- 
dence in  the  early  Church.  Some,  indeed,  imagined  that  a spe- 
cial place  was  assigned  to  them,  where  there  was  neither  suffering 
nor  enjoyment.  This  was  emphatically  denied  by  St.  Augustine, 
who  declared  that  they  descended  into  ‘everlasting  fire.’  Accord- 
ing to  a popular  legend,  the  redbreast  was  commissioned  by  the 
Deity  to  carry  a drop  of  water  to  them  to  relieve  their  con- 
suming thirst,  and  its  breast  was  singed  in  piercing  the  flames. 

Belief  in  a personal  devil,  as  we  have  seen,  was  profound  and 
universal.  Sometimes  he  is  encountered  as  a grotesque  and 
hideous  animal,  sometimes  as  a black  man,  sometimes  as  a fair 
woman,  sometimes  as  a priest  haranguing  in  the  pulpit,  some- 
times as  an  angel  of  light.  He  hovers  forever  about  the  Chris- 
tian;  but  the  sign  of  the  cross,  a few  drops  of  holy  water,  or  the 
name  of  Mary,  can  put  him  to  immediate  and  ignominious  flight. 

Doubt  was  branded  as  a sin.  To  cherish  prejudice  was  better 
than  to  analyze  it.  Those  who  diverged  from  the  orthodox  belief 
were  doomed.  Avenues  of  inquiry  were  painted  with  images  of 
appalling  suffering  and  malicious  demons.  An  age  which  be- 
lieves that  a man  is  intensely  guilty  who  holds  certain  opinions, 
and  will  cause  the  damnation  of  his  fellows  if  he  propagates 
them,  has  no  moral  difficulty  in  concluding  that  the  heretic  should 
be  damned.  A law  of  the  Saxons  condemned  to  death  any  one 
who  ate  meat  in  Lent,  unless  the  priest  was  satisfied  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  absolute  necessity.  Gregory  of  Tours,  recording  ‘the 
virtues  of  saints  and  the  disasters  of  nations,’  draws  the  moral  of 
the  history  thus: 

‘Arins,1  the  impious  founder  of  the  impious  sect,  his  entrails  having  fallen  out, 
passed  into  the  flames  of  hell;  but  Hilary,  the  blessed  defender  of  the  undivided 
Trinity,  though  exiled  on  that  account,  found  his  country  in  Paradise.  King  Clovis, 
who  confessed  the  Trinity,  and  by  its  assistance  crushed  the  heretics,  extended  his 
dominions  through  all  Gaul.  Alaric,  who  denied  the  Trinity,  was  deprived  of  his  king- 
dom and  his  subjects,  and,  what  was  far  worse,  was  punished  in  the  future  world.’ 

At  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  among  the  measures  devised 
to  suppress  heresy,  the  principal  was  the  Inquisition.  The  func- 
tion of  the  civil  government  was  to  execute  its  sentence.  Placed 
in  the  hands  of  Dominicans  and  Franciscans,  it  was  centralized 

1 ‘ I am  persecuted,’  Arius  plaintively  said,  ‘because  I have  taught  that  the  Son  had 
a beginning  and  the  Father  had  not.’ 


124 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


by  the  appointment  of  an  Inquisitor-General  at  Rome,  with 
whom  all  branches  of  the  tribunal  — wherever  the  new  corpora- 
tion was  admitted  — were  to  be  in  constant  communication.  Its 
bloody  success  might  seem  to  fulfil  the  portent  of  Dominic’s 
nativity.  Legend  relates  that  his  mother,  in  the  season  of  child- 
birth, dreamed  that  a dog  was  about  to  issue  from  her  womb, 
bearing  a lighted  torch  that  would  kindle  the  whole  world. 
We  shall  see  its  officers  branding  the  disbeliever  with  hot  irons, 
wrenching  fingers  asunder,  shattering  bones, — doing  it  all  in  the 
name  of  the  Teacher  who  had  said,  ‘ By  this  shall  all  men  know 
that  ye  are  my  disciples,  that  ye  love  one  another,’ — yet  doing 
it  perhaps  in  devotion  to  the  truth  as,  in  their  human  frailty, 
they  conceive  it. 

The  pagan  philosopher  fixed  his  eye  upon  virtue;  the  Chris- 
tian, upon  sin.  The  former  sought  to  awaken  the  sentiment  of 
admiration;  the  latter,  that  of  remorse.  The  one,  powerless  to 
restrain  vice,  was  fitted  to  dignify  man  ; the  other,  to  regen- 
erate him.  Those  who  are  insensible  to  the  nobleness  of  virtue, 
may  be  so  convulsed  by  the  fear  of  judgment  as  to  renew  the 
tenor  of  their  lives. 

The  pagans  asserted  the  immateriality  of  the  soul,  because 
they  believed  that  the  body  must  perish  forever.  The  Fathers, 
with  the  exception  of  Augustine,  maintained  that  the  soul  was 
simply  a second  body.  The  material  view  derived  strength  from 
the  firm  belief  in  punishment  by  fire.  This  was  the  central  fact 
of  religion.  Its  ghastly  imagery  left  nature  stricken  and  forlorn. 
The  agitations  of  craters  were  ascribed  to  the  great  press  of  lost 
souls.  In  the  hush  of  evening,  when  the  peasant  boy  asked  why 
the  sinking  sun,  as  it  dipped  beneath  the  horizon,  kindled  with 
such  a glorious  red,  he  was  answered,  in  the  words  of  an  old 
Saxon  catechism,  ‘because  it  is  then  looking  into  hell.’  The  pen 
of  the  poet,  the  pencil  of  the  artist,  the  visions  of  the  monk, 
sustained  the  maddening  terror  with  appalling  vividness  and 
minuteness.  Through  the  vast  of  hell  rolled  a seething  stream 
of  sulphur,  to  feed  and  intensify  the  waves  of  fire.  In  the  centre 
was  Satan,  bound  by  red-hot  chains,  on  a burning  gridiron.  But 
his  hands  are  free,  and  he  seizes  the  damned,  crushes  them  like 
grapes  against  his  teeth,  then  sucks  them  down  the  fiery  cavern 
of  his  throat.  Hideous  beings,  of  dreadful  aspect  and  fantastic 


RATIONALISM. 


125 


form,  with  hooks  of  red-hot  iron,  plunge  the  lost  alternately  into 
fire  and  ice.  Some  of  the  souls  are  hung  up  by  their  tongues, 
others  are  sawn  asunder  between  flaming  iron  posts,  others 
gnawed  by  serpents,  others  with  hammer  and  anvil  are  welded 
into  a mass,  others  boiled  and  then  strained  through  a cloth.  A 
narrow  bridge  spans  the  abyss,  and  from  this  the  shrieking  souls 
are  plunged  into  the  mounting  flames  below. 

But  in  every  age  there  are  some  who  stand  upon  the  heights, 
above  the  ideal  of  their  generation,  and  forecast  the  realized 
conceptions  of  the  distant  future.  One  of  the  most  rationalistic 
minds  of  the  fourth  century  was  Pelagius,  a British  prelate. 
His  persecutors  were  wont  to  say,  4 Speak  not  to  Pelagius,  or  he 
will  convert  you.’  His  principal  tenets  may  be  thus  epitomized: 

1.  Adam  was  created  mortal,  and  would  have  died  whether 
he  had  sinned  or  not. 

2.  Adam’s  transgression  affected  only  himself,  not  his  pos- 
terity. 

3.  Mankind  neither  perish  through  Adam,  nor  are  raised  from 
the  dead  through  Christ. 

4.  The  law,  as  well  as  the  Gospel,  leads  men  to  heaven. 

5.  Divine  grace  is  conditioned  on  human  worthiness. 

6.  Infants  are  in  the  same  state  as  Adam  before  his  fall. 

He  would  not,  however,  venture  to  deny  the  necessity  of  infant 
baptism.  Severely  pressed  on  this  point  by  his  opponents,  he 
replied  that  baptism  was  necessary  to  wash  away  the  guilt  of 
the  child’s  pettishness  ! 1 One  striking  example  of  a bold  free 
spirit  in  the  tenth  century  was  the  famed  Erigena.  Alone 
in  the  middle  ages,  he  maintained  the  figurative  interpretation 
of  hell-fire. 

In  1277,  propositions  like  the  following  were  professed  by 
philosophers  at  Paris:  God  is  not  triune  and  one,  for  trinity  is 
incompatible  with  simplicity;  the  world  and  humanity  are  eter- 
nal; the  resurrection  of  the  body  must  not  be  admitted  by~ 
philosophers;  the  soul,  when  separated  from  the  body,  cannot 
suffer  by  fire;  theological  discourses  are  based  on  fables;  a man 
who  has  in  himself  moral  and  intellectual  virtues,  has  all  that  is 
necessary  to  happiness. 

1 It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  St.  Augustine,  in  answering  this  argument,  declared 
distinctly  that  the  crying  of  a baby  is  not  sinful,  and  therefore  does  not  deserve  eternal 
damnation. 


126 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


It  may  be  needless  to  add  explicitly  — what  the  theology  of 
the  past  so  plainly  suggests  in  the  changed  atmosphere  of  the 
present  — that  every  age  creates  its  image  of  God;  and  the  image, 
conforming  to  the  conceptions  of  its  creator,  is  the  measure  of  its 
civilization.  This  child  shall  one  day  grow  up  to  manhood,  and 
sing  lofty  psalms  with  noble  human  voice. 

Ethics. — A nation  or  an  age  may  be  without  moral  science, 
but  never  without  moral  distinctions.  The  languages  and  litera- 
ture of  the  world  indicate  that  at  all  times,  among  all  peoples,  the 
idea  of  right  and  wrong  has  been  recognized  and  applied.  We 
shall  find  ethical  notions,  ethical  life,  powerfully  operative,  in 
mediaeval  England,  but  no  ethical  system.  When  society  is  semi- 
barbarous,  the  inculcation  of  morality  devolves  avowedly  and  ex- 
clusively upon  the  priests.  Motives  of  action  require  to  be  mate- 
rialized. Theology  is  the  groundwork  of  morality.  The  moral 
faculty,  too  weak  of  itself  to  be  a guide  of  conduct,  must  be 
reenforced  by  the  rewards  and  punishments  of  religion, — the  hope 
of  Heaven  and  the  fear  of  Hell.  The  propensity  to  evil,  in  conse- 
quence of  original  sin,  is  itself  sin.  The  foundation  of  the  moral 
law  is  the  Divine  will.  Thus  Scotus  asserted  that  the  good  is 
good,  not  by  its  own  inherent  nature,  but  because  God  commands 
it.  But  there  appear  from  time  to  time  men  who,  rising  above 
surrounding  circumstances,  anticipate  the  moral  standard  of  a 
later  age,  and  inculcate  principles  before  their  appropriate  civil- 
ization has  dawned.  Thus  Abelard,  emphasizing  the  subjective 
aspect  of  conscience,  represents  that  moral  good  and  evil  reside 
not  in  the  act  but  in  the  intention.  It  is  only  the  consenting  to 
evil  which  is  sin.  The  pure  hate  sin  from  love  of  virtue,  not  from  a 
slavish  fear  of  pain  inflicted.  The  good  is  good,  not  because  God 
commands  it; but  He  commands  it  because  it  is  good.  God  is  the 
absolutely  highest  good,  and  that,  through  virtue,  should  be  the 
aim  of  human  endeavor.  The  civilizations  of  the  future  may  esti- 
mate their  relative  excellence  by  their  nearness  to  this  eminence 
of  thought ! 

Science. — Before  the  Conquest,  in  the  popular  series  of  Solo- 
mon and  Saturn , it  was  asked,  as  a question  that  engaged  Eng- 
lish curiosity,  ‘What  is  the  substance  of  which  Adam,  the  first 
man,  was  made?’  and  the  answer  was: 


EMBRYONIC  SCIENCE — ASTROLOGY. 


127 


‘I  tell  tliee  of  eight  pounds  by  weight.’  ‘Tell  me  what  they  are  called.’ — ‘I  tell  thee 
the  first  was  a pound  of  earth,  of  which  his  flesh  was  made;  the  second  was  a pound  of 
fire,  whence  his  blood  came,  red  and  hot;  the  third  was  a pound  of  wind,  and  thence  his 
breathing  was  given  to  him ; the  fourth  was  a pound  of  welkin,  thence  was  his  unsteadi- 
ness of  mood  given  him;  the  fifth  was  a pound  of  grace,  whence  was  given  him  his 
growth;  the  sixth  was  a pound  of  blossoms,  whence  was  given  him  the  variety  of  his 
eyes;  and  seventh  was  a pound  of  dew,  whence  he  got  his  sweat;  the  eighth  was  a 
pound  of  salt,  and  thence  were  his  tears  salt.’ 

From  this  we  may  infer  and  estimate  the  rest.  The  same  ques- 
tion and  answer  will  be  found  in  The  Maisters  of  Oxford's 
Catechism , written  in  fifteenth-century  English  ! What  are  the 
condition  and  hope  of  science,  when  inquisitive  children,  who 
delight  in  riddles  and  enigmas,  reduce  it  to  a religious  cate- 
chism? The  overwhelming  importance  attached  to  theology 
diverted  to  it  all  those  intellects  which  in  another  condition  of 
society  would  have  been  employed  in  the  investigations  of  sci- 
ence. Everything  was  done  to  cultivate  habits  the  opposite  of 
scientific, — fear  and  faith.  Innovation  of  every  kind  was  re- 
garded as  a crime.  Superior  knowledge,  shown  in  speculation, 
was  called  heresy;  shown  in  the  study  of  mathematics  or  of 
nature,  it  was  called  magic, — a proof  that  such  pursuits  were 
rare.  In  the  thirteenth  century,  few  students  of  geometry  pro- 
ceeded farther  than  the  fifth  proposition  of  the  first  book  of 
Euclid, — the  famous  asses’  bridge.  What  must  be  the  state  of 
the  natural  sciences,  when  the  science  of  demonstration,  which 
is  their  foundation,  is  neglected  ? Indeed,  the  name  of  the 
mathematics  was  given  chiefly  to  astrology.  Mathematicians 
were  defined  to  be  ‘those  who,  from  the  position  of  the  stars, 
the  aspect  of  the  firmament,  and  the  motions  of  the  planets, 
discover  things  that  are  to  come.’  It  was  universally  believed 
that  the  whole  destiny  of  man  is  determined  by  the  star  that 
presides  over  his  nativity.  Many  could  not,  as  they  imagined, 
safely  appear  in  public,  or  eat,  or  bathe,  unless  they  had  first 
carefully  consulted  the  almanac,  to  ascertain  the  place  and 
appearance  of  their  particular  planet.  Comets  and  meteors 
foreshadowed  the  fate  of  empires;  and  the  signs  of  the  zodiac 
served  only  to  predict  the  career  of  individuals  and  the  develop- 
ment of  communities.  But  as  these  constant  observations,  and 
the  construction  of  instruments  required  for  making  them,  led 
to  astronomy;  so  alchemy,  which  aimed  to  transmute  all  metals 
into  gold,  or  find  the  elixir  of  life,  led  to  chemistry.  An  alchem- 


128 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


ist  records  that  in  a secret  chamber  of  the  Tower  of  London,  he 
performed  in  the  royal  presence  the  experiment  of  transmuting 
some  crystal  into  diamond,  of  which  Edward  I,  he  says,  caused 
some  little  pillars  to  be  made  for  the  tabernacle  of  God.  The 
healing  art,  from  being  practised  only  by  women,  who  employed 
charms  and  spells  with  their  herbs  and  decoctions,  gradually 
became  the  province  of  priests,  who  trusted  to  relics,  holy  water, 
and  other  superstitions.  Medicine  had  in  the  thirteenth  century 
been  taken  in  a great  measure  out  of  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
though  it  was  still  in  the  main  a mixture  of  superstition  and 
quackery.  The  distinction  between  the  physician  and  the  apothe- 
cary was  understood,  and  surgery  also  began  to  be  followed  as 
a separate  branch. 

With  Edward  the  Confessor,  about  the  middle  of  the  eleventh 
century,  began  the  extraordinary  usage  of  touching,  to  cure  the 
disease  called  the  ‘King’s  Evil,’ — a usage  that  continued  for 
nearly  seven  hundred  years.  When  Malcolm  and  Macduff  have 
fled  to  England,  it  is  in  the  palace  of  Edward  the  Confessor  that 
Malcolm  inquires  of  an  English  doctor, — 

‘Comes  the  king  forth,  I pray  you?’ 

and  the  answer  is, — 

‘Ay,  sir:  there  are  a crew  of  wretched  souls 
That  stay  his  cure:  their  malady  convinces 
The  great  assay  of  art;  but  at  his  touch, 

Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand, 

They  presently  amend.’ 

When  Macduff  asks, — 

‘What’s  the  disease  he  means?' 

Malcolm  answers, — 

‘ ’Tis  called  the  evil : 

A most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king; 

Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 

I have  seen  him  do.  How  he  solicits  heaven. 

Himself  best  knows:  but  strangely-visited  people, 

All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye. 

The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures; 

Hanging  a golden  stamp  about  their  necks, 

Put  on  with  holy  prayers:  and  ’tis  spoken 
To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 
The  healing  benediction.’  . . . 

All  which  proves,  if  anything,  that  in  the  treatment  of  disease 
faith  is  more  potent  than  physic. 

The  supposed  influence  of  the  stars,  Avith  a crowd  of  super- 
stitions, naturally  followed  from  the  geocentric  theory  of  the 


SCIENTIFIC  CONCEPTIONS. 


129 


universe.  When  it  is  believed,  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  that  the 
earth  is  the  great  central  object  of  the  whole  created  world, 
around  which  the  sun  and  moon  alike  revolve,  and  the  stars  are 
but  inconsiderable  lights  destined  to  garnish  its  firmament, — 
man  becomes  the  centre  of  all  things,  and  every  startling  phe- 
nomenon has  some  bearing  upon  his  acts;  the  eclipse,  the  comet, 
the  meteor,  the  tempest,  are  all  intended  for  him. 

The  existence  of  the  antipodes,  or  persons  inhabiting  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  globe,  and  consequently  having  the  soles  of 
their  feet  directly  opposed  to  ours,  wras  disproved  by  quoting  St. 
Paul, — that  all  men  are  made  to  live  upon  the  4 face  of  the 
earth,’  from  which  it  clearly  follows  that  they  do  not  live  upon 
more  faces  than  one,  or  upon  the  back.  If  we  examine  a little 
farther,  we  are  told  that  the  earth  is  fixed  firmly  upon  its  founda- 
tions, from  which  we  may  at  least  infer  that  it  is  not  suspended 
in  the  air.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  for  asserting  that  the  earth 
moves,  Copernicus  will  be  censured,  and  Galileo  will  be  impris- 
oned. 

It  was  taught  as  a firmly  established  principle  that  water  has 
no  gravity  in  or  on  water,  since  it  is  in  proprio  loco , in  its  own 
place; — that  air  has  no  gravity  on  water,  since  it  is  above  water, 
which  is  its  proper  place; — -that  earth  in  water  tends  downward, 
since  its  place  is  below  water;  — that  water  rises  in  a pump  or 
syphon,  because  nature  abhors  a vacuum. 

Peter  Lombard  quotes  our  Anglo-Saxon  Bede  that  the  waters 
above  the  firmament  are  the  solid  crystalline  heavens  in  which 
the  stars  are  fixed,  4 for  crystal,  which  is  so  hard  and  transparent, 
is  made  of  water’;  and  mentions  also  the  opinion  of  St.  Augus- 
tine, that  the  waters  above  the  heavens  are  in  a state  of  vapor,  in 
minute  drops: 

‘If,  then,  water  can,  as  we  see  in  clouds,  be  so  minutely  divided  that  it  may  be  thus 
supported  as  vapor  on  air,  which  is  naturally  lighter  than  water;  why  may  we  not  believe 
that  it  floats  above  that  lighter  celestial  element  in  still  minuter  drops  and  still  lighter 
vapors?  But  in  whatever  manner  the  waters  are  there,  we  do  not  doubt  that  they  are 
there.’ 

Philosophy. — The  long  and  barren  period  which  intervened 
between  Proclus  of  the  fifth  century,  in  whom  the  speculative 
activity  of  ancient  Greece  disappeared,  and  Bacon  of  the  six- 
teenth, in  whom  it  was  reformed  and  fertilized,  was  character- 
ized, as  a whole,  by  indistinctness  of  ideas,  bias  to  authority,  and 
9 


130 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


impatience  of  dissent.  Poverty  of  thought  disposed  men  to  lean 
upon  an  intellectual  superior, — Plato,  Aristotle,  or  the  Fathers; 
to  read  nature  through  books;  to  talk  of  what  great  geniuses  had 
said;  to  study  the  opinions  of  others  as  the  only  mode  of  form- 
ing their  own;  to  criticise,  to  interpret,  to  imitate,  to  dispute. 
The  subtlety  which  found  in  certain  accredited  writings  all  the 
truth  it  desired,  forbade  others  to  find,  there  or  elsewhere,  any 
other  truths.  The  slave  became  a tyrant. 

The  Christian  Fathers  made  philosophy  the  handmaid  of  reli- 
gion. The  whole  philosophic  effort  was  to  mediate  between 
the  dogmas  of  faith  and  the  demands  of  reason,  with  church 
doctrine  as  the  criterion  or  standard.  The  method  was  three-fold: 
1.  That  of  the  Fathers,  built  on  Scripture,  modified  by  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Grecian  schools.  2.  Conjointly  with  Scripture,  the- 
use  of  the  Fathers,  themselves.  3.  The  application  of  the  Aris- 
totelian dialectics.1  Philosophy  thus  subservient  to  the  Christian 
articles  of  belief  was  called  Scholasticism,  a name  derived 
from  the  cloister  schools  opened  by  Charlemagne  for  the  pursuit 
of  speculative  studies,  which  in  those  days  were  prosecuted  only 
by  the  clergy,  they  alone  having  leisure  or  inclination  for  such 
work.  The  teachers  of  the  seven  liberal  arts,  as  afterwards  all 
who  occupied  themselves  with  the  sciences,  and  especially  with 
philosophy,  following  the  tradition  and  example  of  the  schools, 
were  called  Scholastics.  Scholasticism,  therefore,  may  be  de- 
fined as  the  reproduction  of  ancient  philosophy  under  the  con- 
trol of  ecclesiastical  doctrine , with  an  accommodation , in  cases 
of  discrepancy  between  them , of  the  former  to  the  latter.  Its 
leading  representatives  till  the  fourteenth  century  are  Erigena, 
with  whom  it  begins,  born  and  educated  in  Ireland;  Roscelin  and 
Abelard,  of  France;  Peter  Lombard  and  Thomas  Aquinas,  of 
Italy;  Anselm,  of  Normandy;  Alexander  Hales,  ‘the  Irrefraga- 
ble,’ and  Duns  Scotus,  ‘the  Subtle  Doctor,’  of  England. 

The  views  of  Erigena,  (800-877)  are  decidedly  Platonic.  God, 
the  creating  and  uncreated  being,  alone  has  essential  subsistence. 
He  is  the  essence  of  all  things,  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all. 
Among  created  natures  are  some  which  themselves  create, — 
Ideas , or  the  archetypes  of  things,  the  first  causes  of  individual 
existences.  These  are  contained  in  the  Divine  Wisdom,  or  Word 

1 That  branch  of  logic  which  teaches  the  rules  and  modes  of  reasoning. 


SCHOLASTICISM  — REALISM  — NOMINALISM. 


131 

— the  Son;  and  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  or  Divine  Love, 
causes  them  to  develop  into  the  forms  of  the  eternal  world.  More 
than  a thousand  years  before,  Plato  had  said: 

‘Now,  Idea  is,  as  regards  God,  a mental  operation  by  him  (the  notions  of  God,  eter- 
nal and  perfect  in  themselves) ; as  regards  us,  the  first  things  perceptible  by  mind;  as 
regards  Matter,  a standard;  but  as  regards  the  world,  perceptible  by  sense,  a pattern; 
but  as  considered  with  reference  to  itself,  an  existence.1 

The  creation  from  nothing  is  out  of  God’s  own  essence  — an  un- 
folding-. Our  life  is  His  life  in  us.  As  the  substance  of  all  thing's 
in  shape  and  time,  He  descends  to  us,  not  alone  in  the  act  of  incar- 
nation, but  in  all  created  existence.  As  out  of  Him  all  things  are 
evolved,  so  into  Him  all  things  will  ultimately  return, — a concep- 
tion not  in  harmony  with  the  doctrinal  system  of  the  Church. 
True  philosophy  and  true  religion  are  one.  But  true  religion  is 
not  identical  with  dogmatism.  On  the  contrary,  in  case  of  a 
collision  between  authority  and  reason,  let  reason  be  given  the 
preference. 

Plato  taught  Realism , the  doctrine  that  universals  — species, 
genera,  or  types  — have  a real  existence  apart  from  individual 
objects.  Aristotle,  on  the  contrary,  taught  Nominalism , the 
doctrine  that  only  individuals  exist  in  reality,  — that  abstract 
ideas  are  nothing  but  abstractions,  general  names , not  general 
things.  Of  the  Scholastic  Nominalists,  Roscelin,  a little  before 
1100,  was  the  first  distinguished  advocate.  It  was  soon  evident 
that  he  was  in  antagonism  with  the  dogma  of  the  Trinity.  If, 
said  his  opponents,  only  individuals  really  exist,  then  the  three 
persons  of  the  Trinity  are  three  individuals,  or  three  Gods, — that, 
or  else  they  have  no  existence.  He  admits  the  fatal  heresy,  is 
summoned  before  a Council,  and  there  forced  publicly  to  recant  ; 
escapes  to  England,  and  perishes  in  exile;  but  the  seed  sown 
fructifies,  and  Nominalism  afterwards  becomes  the  reigning 
doctrine. 

Roscelin  was  opposed  by  Anselm  (1033-1109).  His  motto 
was,  Credo , ut  intelligam.  Knowledge  must  rest  on  faith,  and 
submission  to  the  Church  must  be  unconditional.  Goodness, 
truth,  virtue,  etc.,  possess  real  existence,  independent  of  individ- 
ual beings,  not  merely  immanent  in  them.  On  this  realistic  basis 
he  founds  a proof  of  the  divine  existence,  with  which  his  fame  is 
chiefly  connected.  The  argument  is  an  attempt  to  prove  the  ex- 
istence of  God  from  the  very  idea  which  we  have  of  Him  — the 


132 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


summum  bonum , or  greatest  object  that  can  be  conceived.  This 
conception  exists  in  the  intellect  of  all  who  have  the  idea  of  God, 
— in  the  intellect  of  the  atheist  as  well.  But  the  greatest  cannot 
be  in  the  mind  only,  for  then  something  still  greater  would  be 
conceivable  which  should  exist  not  only  in  the  mind  but  in  exter- 
nal reality.  Hence  the  greatest  must  exist  at  the  same  time,  both 
subjectively  and  objectively.  God,  therefore,  is  not  merely  con- 
ceived by  us, — He  also  really  exists. 

One  of  Roscelin’s  pupils  was  the  youthful  Abelard  (1079- 
1142),  whose  unfortunate  love-relations,  more  than  his  eloquence 
or  subtlety,  rendered  his  name  immortal.  Posterity  feels  interested 
in  him  because  Eloise  loved  him;  and  when  the  gates  of  the  con- 
vent close  forever  on  her,  the  warm  interest  in  him  disappears.  His 
position  in  dialectics,  while  intermediate  between  untenable  ex- 
tremes, is  not  far  removed  from  strict  Nominalism.  His  chief 
distinction  is  regular  and  systematic  application  of  dialectics  to 
theology.  Without  being  the  first  to  rationalize  dogmatics,  he 
went  farther  in  a way  which  had  already  been  opened  up,  and 
may  thus  be  said  to  have  given  to  Scholasticism  its  peculiar  and 
permanent  form.  Asserting  the  supremacy  of  reason,  he  repre- 
sents the  insurgent  spirit  of  those  times.  Writes  St.  Bernard  to 
the  pope : Transgreditur  fines  quos  posuerunt  patres  nostri — ‘ he 
goes  beyond  the  limits  set  by  our  ancestors!’ — an  offense  in  all 
ages,  in  all  nations.  The  revolutionist  further  ‘ transgresses’  by 
the  composition  of  Sic  et  Non,  in  which  he  sets  forth  the  contra- 
dictory statements  of  the  Fathers,  designed,  as  he  distinctly  in- 
forms us,  to  train  the  mind  to  vigorous  and  healthy  doubt,  in  ful- 
filment of  the  injunction,  ‘Seek,  and  ye  shall  find;  knock,  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you.’  Doubt  begins.  Disputation  waxes 
stronger.  In  every  city  of  Europe,  logic  plays  around  every  sub- 
ject, the  most  profound  and  sacred,  like  lambent  flame.  The 
struggle  thus  begun  has  not  yet  ended. 

Abelard’s  pupil  — Peter  Lombard,  who  died  in  1164  — pre- 
pared a manual  of  theology  called  The  Took  of  Sentences , which 
became,  and  for  centuries  continued,  the  basis  of  theological  in- 
struction and  a guide  for  the  dialectical  treatment  of  theological 
problems. 

Thomas  Aquinas  (1225-1274)  brought  Scholasticism  to  its 
highest  stage  of  development,  by  the  utmost  accommodation  of 


SCHOLASTICS  — THE  SYLLOGISM. 


133 


the  Aristotelian  doctrines  to  those  of  ecclesiastical  orthodoxy. 
With  him,  as  with  Aristotle,  knowledge  — and  preeminently 
knowledge  of  God  — is  the  supreme  end  of  life.  The  Divine 
existence  is  demonstrable  only  a posteriori , namely,  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  world  as  the  work  of  God.  The  order  of  the 
world  presupposes  an  Orderer.  There  must  be  a First  Mover  or 
a First  Cause,  since  the  chain  of  effects  and  causes  cannot  be 
infinite.  God  exists  as  a pure,  immaterial  form.  Before  His 
creative  fiat,  time  was  not.  The  soul  of  man  is  immortal,  because 
it  is  immaterial.  It  is  immaterial  because  it  thinks  the  universal; 
whereas,  if  it  were  a form  inseparable  from  matter,  like  the  soul 
of  a brute,  it  could  think  only  the  individual.  Pure  form  can 
neither  destroy  itself,  nor,  through  the  destruction  of  a material 
substratum,  be  destroyed.  Yet  the  human  soul  does  not  exist 
before  the  body.  Nor  is  its  knowledge  the  mere  recollection  of 
ideas  beheld  in  a preexistent  state,  as  Plato  assumed. 

While  the  earlier  scholastics  had  known  only  the  Loyic  of 
Aristotle,  Alexander  Hales  (died  1245)  first  used  his  entire 
philosophy,  including  the  metaphysics,  as  the  auxiliary  of  Chris- 
tian theology. 

A distinguished  opponent  of  Thomas  Aquinas  and  his  system 
was  Duns  Scotus,  who  in  1308  died  at  Cologne,  whither  he 
had  been  sent  to  take  part  in  a debate.  His  strength,  like  that  of 
Kant,  lay  in  the  acute  and  negative  criticism  of  others  rather 
than  in  the  establishment  of  his  own  position.  Trained  in 
mathematical  studies,  he  knew  what  was  meant  by  proving,  and 
could  therefore  recognize  in  most  of  the  pretended  proofs  their 
invalidity.  Without  denying  the  truth  of  the  theorems  them- 
selves, he  rejects  much  of  the  reasoning  employed  to  prove  the 
being  of  God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  bases  the 
evidence  on  our  moral  nature.  Revelation  alone  renders  them 
certain.  Arguments  should  be  viewed  with  distrust.  The  do- 
main of  reason  he  would  further  contract;  that  of  faith,  still 
more  extend.  The  world  is  but  a mean,  by  the  right  use  of 
which  the  only  end  of  its  existence  — the  salvation  of  man- 
kind— is  attained.  This  is  practical, — at  least  in  desire,  as  of 
one  whose  eyes  are  fixed  on  sin,  black  death,  and  the  Judgment, 
not  daring  to  embark  on  the  great  journey  with  unsafe  guides. 

The  heavy  instrument  supplied  to  these  disputants  by  Aris- 


134 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


totle  was  the  Syllogism,  which,  as  every  student  of  logic  under- 
stands, contains: 

1.  Three  terms , the  extremes  and  the  middle;  or  the  major 
term  (P) — predicate  of  the  conclusion,  the  minor  term  ($) — 
subject  of  the  conclusion,  and  the  middle  term  ( M ) — medium 
of  comparison. 

2.  Three  propositions , the  premises  and  the  conclusion;  or 
the  major  premise  in  which  M and  P are  compared,  the  minor 
premise  in  which  IS  and  M are  compared,  and  the  conclusion  in 
which  the  relation  of  S and  P is  inferred, — the  proposition  to 
be  proved.  Thus,  symbolized: 


( All  M is  P,  ) 
■<  All  S is  M,  > 
( .*.  All  S is  P.  ) 


No  P is  M,  ) 

All  S is  M,  [• 

No  S is  P.  ; 


o 


Or,  concretely: 

Every  responsible  agent  is  a free  agent, 

Man  is  a responsible  agent, 

.*.  Man  is  a free  agent. 

Plato,  Aristotle,  the  Apostles,  and  the  Fathers,  gave  the  prem- 
ises; ingenuity  piled  up  cathedrals  of  conclusion.  What  more 
agreeable  exercise  to  speculative  minds  than  tracing  the  conse- 
quences of  assumed  principles?  It  is  deductive,  like  geometry, 
self-satisfying  and  inexhaustible.  As  there  could  be  no  genuine 
progress,  so  there  was  no  tendency  to  come  to  an  end.  A cease- 
less grinding  of  the  air  in  metaphysic  mills: 


LEARNED  PUERILITIES. 


135 


‘ They  stand 
Locked  up  together  hand  in  hand; 

Every  one  leads  as  he  is  led, 

The  same  bare  path  they  tread, 

And  dance  like  fairies  a fantastic  round, 

But  neither  change  their  motion  nor  their  ground.’ 

What  does  the  reader  think  of  the  pregnant  announcement  that 
‘an  individual  man  is  Peter,  because  his  humanity  is  combined 
with  Petreity ’? — of  the  division  of  matter  into  firstly  first, 
secondly  first,  and  thirdly  first?  — of  the  chimerical  questions, 
whether  identity,  similitude,  and  equality  are  real  relations  in 
God?  whether,  the  place  and  body  being  retained , God  can 
cause  the  body  to  have  no  position?  whether  the  divine  essence 
engendered  the  Son,  or  was  engendered  by  the  Father?  why  the 
three  persons  together  are  not  greater  than  one  alone?  if  God 
can  know  more  things  than  He  is  aware  of  ? whether  Christ  at 
the  first  instant  of  conception  had  the  use  of  free  judgment  ? 
whether  He  was  slain  by  Himself  or  by  another?  whether  the 
dove  in  which  the  Holy  Spirit  appeared  was  a real  animal  ? 
whether  two  glorified  bodies  can  occupy  one  and  the  same  place 
at  the  same  time  ? whether  in  the  state  of  innocence  all  children 
were  masculine?  — of  the  puerile  puzzles  whether  a person  in  the 
purchase  of  a whole  cloak  also  buys  the  cowl  ? whether,  when, 
a hog  is  carried  to  market  with  a rope  tied  about  its  neck  and 
held  at  the  other  end  by  a man,  the  hog  is  really  carried  to 
market  by  the  man  or  by  the  rope  ? 

What  truth  could  issue  thence?  What  wonder  that  Scholas- 
ticism is  a vast  cemetery  of  departed  reputation?  Yet  under- 
neath this  word-quibbling  are  the  deepest  problems  of  Ontology; 
and  the  human  hearts  which  throb  to  them  are,  as  we  shall  see,, 
prophetic  of  the  English  soul: 

‘A  great  delight  is  granted 
When  in  the  spirit  of  the  ages  planted, 

We  mark  how,  ere  our  time,  a sage  has  thought, 

And  then,  how  far  his  work,  and  grandly,  we  have  brought.’ 

Resume. — Gradually  the  past  is  explaining  the  present. 
Through  anarchy,  conflict,  and  constraint,  the  Witan  and  Great 
Council  are  transformed  into  the  English  Parliament,  which  con- 
tinues to  this  day  the  same  in  all  essential  points.  The  House  of 
Commons,  archetype  of  representative  assemblies,  holds  its  first 
sittings.  French  connections  are  sundered;  Wales  is  annexed 


136 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


forever  to  the  English  crown;  Ireland  is  conquered,  though  not 
subdued;  and  the  famous  heroes,  Wallace  and  Bruce,  wrest  from 
Edward  I the  liberties  of  Scotland. 

The  mass  of  the  agricultural  population  is  rising  from  the 
position  of  mere  slaves  to  that  of  tenant-farmers;  and  the  ad- 
vance of  society,  as  well  as  the  natural  increase  of  population,  is 
freeing  the  laborer  from  local  bondage.  The  government  of  the 
English  towns  passes  from  the  hands  of  an  oligarchy  to  those  of 
the  rising  middle  classes. 

The  space  of  about  a thousand  years,  extending  from  the  fall 
of  the  Western  Empire,  in  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century,  to 
that  of  the  Eastern,  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth,  comprises  two 
nearly  equal  periods, — the  gradual  decline  and  the  gradual  re- 
vival of  letters.  Convents,  meanwhile,  are  the  asylum  of  knowl- 
edge, and  secure  the  thread  which  connects  us  with  the  literature 
of  classic  Greece  and  Rome.  With  few  exceptions,  the  writers 
are  priestly  or  monastic. 

The  Conquest,  breaking  the  mental  stagnation,  introduces 
England  into  a free  communion  with  the  intellectual  and  artistic 
life  of  the  Continent,  and  subjects  it  to  the  two  ruling  mediasval 
impulses, — Feudalism  and  the  Church,  the  one  producing  the 
adventurous  hero,  the  other  the  mystical  monk;  both  working- 
together  for  the  amelioration  of  mankind,  both  running  to  excess, 
and  degenerating  by  the  violence  of  their  own  strength.  Under 
the  first,  slavery  is  modified  into  serfdom;  under  the  second, 
learning  is  preserved,  and  a sense  of  the  unity  of  Christendom 
maintained;  under  both,  springs  up  the  idea  of  chivalry,  mould- 
ing generous  instincts  into  gallant  institutions. 

From  the  fifth  to  the  thirteenth  century,  the  Church  elabo- 
rates the  most  splendid  organization  which  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  During  the  last  three  centuries  of  the  period,  her  destiny 
achieved,  faith  and  reason  begin  to  be  sundered,  and  violence  is 
used  for  the  repression  of  inquiry.  The  spiritual  power,  grown 
corrupt  by  growing  ambitious,  is  resisted  by  the  temporal. 
Kings  war  with  popes,  and  popes  struggle  to  put  their  feet  upon 
the  necks  of  kings.  Religion,  from  a ceremonial,  is  being  con- 
verted into  a reality.  Hermit  and  friar  carry  spiritual  life  home 
to  the  heart  of  the  nation. 

First  English  poems  are  of  war  and  religion, — never  of  love. 


RESUME. 


137 


The  greatest  are  Beowulf ‘ an  epic  imported  from  the  Continent, 
and  re-written  in  parts  by  a Christian  Englishman;  and  Caed- 
mon’s Paraphrase  of  the  Bible , written  about  670,  and  for  us 
the  beginning  of  English  poetry.  Of  scattered  pieces  after 
Caedmon,  all  Christian  in  tone,  the  finest  are  Judith , The  Ruin , 
and  The  Grave.  The  war  poetry,  sung  from  feast  to  feast  and 
in  the  halls  of  kings,  dies  out  after  the  English  are  trodden  down 
by  the  Normans.  English  literature  — in  a state  of  languishing 
depression  at  the  Conquest  — is  thereafter  displaced  by  the  ro- 
mance, in  which,  as  favorite  heroes,  Arthur,  Alexander,  and 
Charlemagne,  dressed  as  feudal  knights,  slay  dragons  and  giants, 
storm  enchanted  castles,  set  free  beautiful  ladies,  and  perform 
other  wondrous  deeds.  Not,  however,  till  nearly  a century  has 
passed  away — when  Norman  noble  and  English  yeoman,  Norman 
abbot  and  English  priest,  are  welded  into  one  — is  the  rhyming 
romantic  poetry  of  France  naturalized.  In  its  rise  under  Edward 
I,  native  genius,  in  the  vernacular,  is  poetical.  The  poetry  is 
religious,  story-telling,  and  lyric,  typified  in  the  Onnulum , the 
Brut , the  Owl  and  Nightingale.  As  a whole  the  literature  is 
characterized  by  reality,  directness,  and  truth  to  nature.  Ele- 
vated in  tone,  eminently  practical  in  aim, — owing  in  a consider- 
able degree  to  its  insular  position,  it  contrasts  strongly  with 
much  of  the  contemporaneous  expression  of  Continental  genius, 
which  is  less  the  reflection  of  earnest,  active  life,  than  a magic 
mirror  showing  forth  the  unsubstantial  dreams  of  an  idle,  luxu- 
rious, and  fantastic  people. 

Latin  is  the  key  to  erudition, — the  prevailing  language  of  the 
learned  professions,  of  law  and  physic,  as  well  as  of  divinity,  in 
all  their  grades.  French,  the  language  of  romance,  lives  upon 
the  lips  of  royalty,  rank,  and  beauty.  In  the  storm  of  national 
calamity  English  ceases  to  be  generally  either  written  or  read; 
and  when  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  it  begins  to 
raise  its  diminished  head,  it  has  been  converted,  substantially, 
from  an  inflectional  to  a non-inflectional  tongue,  a natural  muta- 
tion accelerated  by  the  Norman  invasion.  The  Chronicle , the 
Brut , and  the  Ormulum  prove  its  continuity  and  victory. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  Crusades  is  succeeded  by  an  enthusi- 
asm of  study,  imprisoned  and  limited  by  the  scholastic  logic  and 
metaphysics,  under  whose  ascendancy  elegant  literature  pales. 


138 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


Scholasticism  reveals  already  the  dominant  tendencies  of  Eng- 
lish thought, — subordination  of  theory  to  practice,  in  John  of 
Salisbury;  scepticism  as  to  ultimate  philosophical  questions,  in 
Scotus;  devotion  to  physical  science  as  a thing  of  demonstrative 
and  practical  utility,  in  Bacon. 

The  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  are  the  seed-time  of  all 
modern  language  and  literature.  The  former  is  the  great  turning 
point  of  the  European  intellect.  Then  it  is  that  a general  revival 
of  Latin  literature  takes  place;  then  — the  first  time  for  many 
centuries  — the  long  slumber  of  untroubled  orthodoxy  is  broken 
by  hydra-headed  heresies;  then  the  standard  of  an  impartial 
philosophy  is  first  planted  by  Abelard;  then  the  passion  for 
astrology  and  its  fatalism  revives  with  the  revival  of  pagan  learn- 
ing, and  penetrates  into  the  halls  of  nobles  and  the  palaces  of 
kings;  men  are  learning  to  doubt,  without  learning  that  doubt  is 
innocent,  compelled,  by  the  new  mental  activity,  to  a variety  of 
opinions,  while  the  old  credulity  persuades  them  that  all  opinions 
but  one  are  suggestions  of  the  devil.  The  latter  is  a decisive 
epoch,  not  more  for  the  constitutional  history  of  England  than 
for  its  intellectual  progress.  Its  general  activity  and  ardor  are 
shown  by  the  great  concourse  of  students  to  the  universities,  by 
the  number  and  eminence  of  the  schoolmen,  by  religious  and 
political  satires,  by  that  flame  of  zeal  which  sweeps  the  masses 
from  their  native  soil  to  hurl  them  upon  Holy  Land.  Then  the 
French  romantic  poetry  with  its  craving  for  excitement,  begins 
to  be  transfused  into  a medium  intelligible  throughout  England; 
then,  above  all,  a definite  language  is  formed,  and  there  is  room 
for  a great  writer. 

Slowly,  step  by  step,  the  England  of  the  Doomsday  Book,  the 
England  of  the  Curfew,  the  England  of  crusaders,  monks,  astrolo- 
gers, serfs,  and  outlaws,  is  becoming  the  England  of  liberty, 
knowledge,  and  trade, — the  England  that  spreads  her  dominion 
over  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  and  scatters  the  seeds  of  empires 
.and  republics  in  the  jungles  of  India  and  the  forests  of  America. 


THE  SAXON  MILTON. 


139 


CAEDMON. 


The  Milton  of  our  Forefathers.— D' Israeli. 

Biography, — His  life  lies  buried  in  obscurity  and  fable.  We 
obtain  our  first  glimpses  of  him  as  a peasant,  on  some  of  the 
abbey  lands  of  Whitby,  who,  though  his  sun  was  already  declin- 
ing, had  never  dreamed  that  he  was  a sublime  poet.  A marvel- 
lous incident — according  to  the  taste  and  manner  of  the  age  — 
explains  his  literary  history: 

Once,  sitting  with  his  companions  over  the  ale-cup,  while  they 
sang  in  turn  the  praises  of  war  or  beauty,  when  the  circling 
‘Wood  of  Joy’  passed  to  him,  he  rose  and  went  out  with  a sad 
heart,  for  he  alone  — all  unskilled  — was  unable  to  weave  his 
thoughts  into  verse.  Wearied  and  desponding,  he  lay  down  to  rest 
in  a stall  of  oxen,  of  which  he  was  the  appointed  night-guard. 
As  he  slept,  an  angel  appeared  to  him  and  said:  ‘Caedmon,  sing 
some  song  to  me  ! ’ The  herdsman  urged  that  he  was  mute  and 
unmusical.  ‘Nevertheless,  thou  shalt  sing!’  retorted  the  benig- 
nant stranger.  ‘What  shall  I sing?’  rejoined  the  minstrel  who 
had  never  sung.  ‘ Sing  the  origin  of  things  ! ’ His  imprisoned 
intellect  was  unlocked,  and  he  listened  to  the  wonder  of  his  own 
voice  through  eighteen  lines  of  ‘ Let  us  praise  God,  maker  of 
heaven  and  earth.’  In  the  morning  he  remembered  the  lines, 
flew  to  the  town-reeve1  to  announce  his  dream,  told  how,  in  one 
memorable  night  — incapable  even  of  reading  his  own  Saxon,  after 
a whole  life  spent  without  ever  surmising  himself  to  be  poetical  — 
he  had  become  a poet,  and  desired  to  use  his  gift  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  the  people  in  the  Heavenly  Word.  Good  Abbess  Hilda 
in  turn  received  him,  heard  him  recite,  was  favorably  impressed 
with  his  rare  talents,  gave  him  an  exercise  to  test  his  new-found 
skill,  then  welcomed  him,  with  all  his  goods,  into  the  monastery; 
the  brethren  read  to  him,  from  Genesis  to  Revelations,  wrote 
down  his  oracular  sayings,  and  committed  them  to  memory;  so 
winsome,  so  divine,  were  his  song  and  his  verse.  Day  by  day, 
piece  by  piece,  the  poem  grew,  till  he  had  turned  various  parts 
of  Sacred  Writ  into  English  poetry.  Severed  from  the  cares  of 

1 Reeve , from  Saxon  gerefa , denotes  a magistrate  or  officer:  obsolete  except  in  com- 
pounds, as  shire-reeve  (now  vvritten  sheriff) . 


140 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


the  active  world,  in  the  deep  calm  of  monastic  seclusion,  he  lived 
and  wrought,  living  for  the  Unseen  alone,  and  undisturbed  by 
either  anxiety  or  doubt.  One  of  the  aspects,  is  this,  in  which  the 
monastic  period  of  literature  appears  eminently  beautiful, — free- 
dom from  the  turmoil  and  impatience,  the  vanity  and  pride,  of 
modern  literary  life.  Slowly  wasted  by  disease,  he  died  in  680, 
near  the  hour  of  midnight,  peacefully, — 

‘Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams.1 

Here,  to  the  inquisitive  who  would  go  on  knocking,  the  door 
is  closed.  Over  the  outer  history  of  the  man,  the  accidental 
circumstances  of  his  life,  oblivion  ‘blindly  scattereth  her  poppy.’ 
Of  more  worth  is  the  inner  history  of  genius.  The  Dreamer 
lives  in  his  dream. 

Writings. — The  Paraphrase , containing,  besides  other  por- 
tions of  the  Bible,  the  story  of  the  Creation,  the  Revolt,  the 
Fall,  the  Flood,  and  the  Exodus.  The  sole  manuscript  is  of  the 
tenth  century;  disappearing  from  visible  existence,  it  was  acci- 
dentally discovered  in  the  seventeenth,  and  first  published  in 
1655,  a thousand  years  after  its  composition. 

Filled  with  the  grandeur  of  his  subject,  in  words  of  such 
majesty  as  were  never  uttered  of  human  heroes  or  Scandina- 
vian gods,  he  sounds  the  key-note  of  a new  poetic  strain: 

‘ Most  right  is  it  that  we,  heaven’s  Guard, 

Glory,  King  of  hosts!  with  words  should  praise, 

With  hearts  should  love.  He  is  of  powers  the  efficacy; 

Head  of  all  high  creations; 

Lord  Almighty!  In  Him  beginning  never 
Or  origin  hath  been;  but  He  is  aye  supreme 
Over  heaven-thrones,  with  high  majesty 
Righteous  and  mighty ! 1 

A concrete  of  exclamations  from  a strong,  barbarous  heart;  a 
song  of  a servant  of  Odin,  tonsured  now,  and  clad  in  the  habili- 
ments of  a monk.  Then  follow  the  rebellion  of  Satan,  the  expul- 
sion of  the  angels,  and  their  confinement  in  the  fierv  g*ulf.  The 

ci  y c/  o 

Hebrew  Tempter,  transformed  by  the  German  sense  of  might  of 
individual  manhood,  becomes  a republican,  disdainful  of  vassal- 
age  to  God: 

‘“Wherefore,”  he  said,  “shall  I toil? 

No  need  have  I of  master.  I can  work 

With  my  own  hands  great  marvels,  and  have  power 

To  build  a throne  more  worthy  of  a God, 

Higher  in  heaven!  Why  shall  I,  for  His  smile. 


THE  SAXON  MILTON. 


141 


Serve  Him,  bend  to  Him  thus  in  vassalage? 

I  may  be  God  as  He. 

Stand  by  me,  strong  supporters,  firm  in  strife. 

Iiard-mooded  heroes,  famous  warriors, 

Have  chosen  me  for  chief;  one  may  take  thought 
With  such  for  counsel,  and  with  such  secure 
Large  following.  My  friends  in  earnest  they, 

Faithful  in  all  the  shaping  of  their  minds; 

I am  the  master,  and  may  rule  this  realm.”  1 2 

The  two  religions,  Christian  and  pagan,  so  like,  mingle  their 
incongruities,  images,  and  legends.  The  patriarchs  are  earls; 
Abraham  is  ‘a  guardian  of  bracelets’  (wealth);  the  sons  of 
Reuben  are  vikings  (sea-pirates) ; the  Ethiopians  are  ‘ a people 
brown  with  the  hot  coals  of  heaven’;  God  is  the  ‘Blithe-hearted 
King,’  the  Overlord,  ruler  of  his  thanes  with  an  iron  hand: 

‘ Stern  of  mood  He  was;  He  gript  them  in  His  wrath;  with  hostile  hands  He  gript 
them,  and  crushed  them  in  His  grasp.1 

For  three  nights  and  days 2 the  Fiend,  with  his  comrades,  fell 
headlong  from  the  skies  down  to  ‘the  swart  hell, — a land  void 
of  light  and  full  of  flame.’ 3 * 

‘ There  they  have  at  even,  immeasurably  long,  each  of  all  the  fiends,  a renewal  of 
fire  with  sulphur  charged;  but  cometh  ere  dawn  the  eastern  wind-frost,  bitter  cold, 
ever  fire  or  dart.1 4 

In  the  ‘torture-house’  lies  the  Apostate  in  chains,  proud,  fear- 
less, self-conscious,  and  indomitable,  like  the  Northern  warriors; 
‘the  haughty  king,  who  of  angels  erst  was  brightest,  fairest  in 
heaven,  beloved  of  his  Master;  so  beauteous  was  his  form,  he 
was  like  to  the  light  stars.’5  Overcome,  shall  he  be  subdued? 

‘Within  him  boiled  his  thoughts  about  his  heart; 

Without,  the  wrathful  fire  pressed  hot  upon  him. 

He  said:  “This  narrow  place  is  most  unlike 
That  other  we  once  knew  in  heaven  high, 

And  which  my  Lord  gave  me ; though  own  it  now 

1 See  Paradise  Lost , I and  V,  for  remarkable  resemblances. 

2  Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day  and  night 
To  mortal  men. — Paradise  Lost. 

3  Yet  from  these  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible.— Ibid. 

* The  bitter  change 

Of  fierce  extremes,  extremes  by  change  more  fierce. 

From  beds  of  raging  fire  to  starve  in  ice. — Ibid. 

And,— 

Eternal  darkness  for  the  dwellers  in  fierce  heat  and  ice.— Inferno. 

5 His  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined. — Paradise  Lost. 

And,— 

His  countenance  as  the  morning  star  that  guides 
The  starry  flock,  allured  them.— Ibid. 


142 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


We  must  not,  but  to  Him  must  cede  our  realm. 

Yet  right  He  hath  not  done  to  strike  us  down 
To  hell’s  abyss,— of  heaven’s  realm  bereft,— 

Which  with  mankind  to  people  He  hath  planned. 

Pain  sorest  this,  that  Adam,  wrought  of  earth, 

On  my  strong  throne  shall  sit,  enjoying  bliss. 

While  we  endure  these  pangs, — hell-torments  dire. 

Oh ! woe  is  me ! could  I but  use  my  hands 
And  might  I be  from  here  a little  time, — 

One  winter’s  space,— then  with  this  host  would  I,— 

But  press  me  hard  these  iron  bands,— this  coil 
Of  chain,— and  powerless  I am,  so  fast 
I’m  bound.  Above  is  fire;  below  is  fire; 

A loathier  landscape  never  have  I seen; 

Nor  smolders  aye  the  fire,  but  hot  throughout. 

In  chains;  my  pathway  barred;  my  feet  tied  down; 

These  hell-doors  bolted  all ; I may  not  move 
From  out  these  limb-bands;  binds  me  iron  hard, — 

Hot-forged  great  grindles!  God  has  griped  me  tight 
About  the  neck.”  ’ 1 

But  to  him  who  has  lost  everything,  vengeance  is  left.  Indisso- 
lubly bound,  he  dispatches  an  associate  to  wreak  his  ire  on  the 
innocent  pair  in  Eden.  The  emissary  was  ‘prompt  in  arms;  he 
had  a crafty  soul;  this  chief  set  his  helmet  on  his  head;  he  many 
speeches  knew  of  guileful  words;  wheeled  up  from  thence,  he 
departed  through  the  doors  of  hell,’ 2 flinging  aside  the  flames 
with  the  bravery  of  his  sovereign.  Adam  is  invincible,  but  Eve 
is  ensnared;  ‘for  to  her,’  we  are  assured,  ‘a  weaker  mind  had  the 
Creator  assigned;’  ‘yet’ — let  us  treat  her  tenderly — ‘did  she  it 
through  faithful  mind;  she  knew  not  that  hence  so  many  ills, 
sinful  woes,  must  follow  to  mankind.’  A theme  fitter  for  the 
historian  or  translator;  too  domestic  for  the  barbarian  poet’s  vigor 
and  sublimity.  Tumult,  murder,  combat  and  death  are  needed  to 
swell  into  flame  the  native  instinct.  When,  later  on,  he  describes 
the  flight  of  the  Israelites,  the  strong  breast  heaves,  and  he  shouts, 
incapable  of  restraining  his  passion: 

‘They  preferred  their  arms;  the  war  advanced;  bucklers  glittered,  trumpets  blared, 
standards  rattled;  . . . around  them  screamed  the  fowls  of  war ; the  ravens  sang,  greedy 
of  battle,  dewy-feathered;  over  the  bodies  of  the  host  — dark  choosers  of  the  slain  — 
the  wolves  sang  their  horrid  even-song.’ 

With  full  zest,  while  the  blood  mounts  in  blinding  currents  to  his 
eyes,  he  recounts  the  destruction  of  Pharaoh  and  his  host: 

1 See  Paradise  Lost , I and  IV,  for  singular  correspondences. 

u Reminding  us  of  — 

The  infernal  doors  that  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder.— Paradise  Lost. 


THE  SAXON  MILTON. 


143 


‘The  folk  was  affrighted,  the  flood-dread  seized  on  their  sad  souls;  ocean  wailed 
with  death,  the  mountain  heights  were  with  blood  besteamed,  the  sea  foamed  with  gore, 
crying  was  in  the  waves,  the  water  full  of  weapons,  a death-mist  rose;  the  Egyptians 
were  turned  back;  trembling  they  fled,  they  felt  fear;  would  that  host  gladly  find  their 
homes;  their  vaunt  grew  sadder;  against  them,  as  a cloud,  rose  the  fell  rolling  of  the 
waves;  there  came  not  any  of  that  host  to  home,  but  from  behind  enclosed  them  fate 
with  the  wave.  Where  wave  e’er  lay,  the  sea  raged.  Their  might  was  merged,  the 
streams  stood,  the  storm  rose  high  to  heaven;  the  loudest  arm-cry  the  hostile  uttered; 
the  air  above  was  thickened  with  dying  voices.  . . . Ocean  raged,  drew  itself  up  on  high, 
the  storms  rose,  the  corpses  rolled.’ 

Verily,  the  heathen  fire  has  not  burned  out,  nor  the  heathen 
imagery  dropped  out  of  memory  and  power.  The  old  faith  and 
the  new  coexist  and  combine.  When  the  monks  read  to  him  the 
opening  of  Genesis — ‘And  the  earth  was  void  and  empty,  and 
darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  and  the  spirit  of  God 
moved  over  the  waters’ — he  is  reminded  of  his  ancestral  cosmos:- 
ony  as  preserved  in  the  Edcla , and  the  coloring  of  those  ancient 
dreams  clings  to  his  description: 

‘There  had  not  as  yet,  save  cavern-shade,  ought  been;  but  this  wide  abyss  stood  deep 
;and  dim,  strange  to  its  Lord,  idle  and  useless;  on  which  looked  with  his  eyes  the  king 
firm  of  mind,  and  beheld  those  places  void  of  joys;  saw  the  dark  cloud  lower  in  eternal 
night,  swart  under  heaven,  dark  and  waste,  until  this  worldly  creation,  through  the 
word,  existed  of  the  Glory-King.  . . The  earth  as  yet  was  not  green  with  grass;  ocean 
•cover'd,  swart  in  eternal  night,  far  and  wide  the  dusky  ways.’ 

The  Caedmonian  poem,  it  is  probable,  is  one  of  the  many  attempts 
•of  the  monkish  recluse  to  familiarize  the  people  with  the  miracu- 
lous and  religious  narratives  of  Scripture  by  a paraphrase  in  the 
vernacular  idiom.  Of  the  two  books  composing  it,  only  the  first 
is  continuous;  the  second  is  fragmentary.  Perhaps  the  discord- 
ances are  no  greater  than  we  should  expect  in  a manuscript  text 
passing  from  generation  to  generation;  perhaps  they  indicate 
that  the  paraphrase,  interrupted  at  intervals,  was  resumed  by 
some  successor,  as  idling  monks  at  a subsequent  period  were 
often  the  continuators  of  voluminous  romances.  Its  new  mythol- 
ogy will  frame  the  miracle-play.  Milton,  finding  his  originals  in 
the  Puritans,  as  Caedmon  in  the  Vikings,  will  adopt  it  in  his  epic, 
-assisted  in  the  development  of  his  thought  by  all  the  resources  of 
Latin  culture  and  civilization. 

Style  . — Iterative,  vivid,  harsh,  curt,  emphatic,  ejaculative;  as 
in  all  true  Saxon  poetry,  whose  genuine  type  is  the  war-song, 
where  the  verses  fall  like  sword-strokes  in  the  thick  of  battle. 

Rank. — Nature  in  her  first  poverty,  displaying  the  primitive 
force  of  the  self-taught.  A type  of  the  grandeur,  depth,  and 


144 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


tragic  tone  which  the  German  race  was  to  give  to  the  religion  of 
the  East.  Never  before  had  the  English  language  clothed  such 
sublime  thoughts.  Never  had  limitless  desire  so  struggled,  giant- 
like, with  limited  utterance.  ‘Others  after  him,’  says  Bede,, 
‘attempted,  in  the  English  nation,  to  compose  religious  poems, 
but  none  could  ever  compare  with  him.’  Above  the  din  of  war 
and  bloodshed,  amid  the  brutality  and  mental  inaction  of  cen- 
turies, he  raised  his  voice  and  sang  the  substance  of  which  all  the 
ancient  myths  were  but  the  shadow;  sang  with  such  fervor  and 
persuasion  that  ‘ many  were  often  excited  to  despise  the  world,, 
and  to  aspire  to  heaven.’  The  prototype  of  Milton,  as  the  picture 
exists  in  the  sketch:  the  one,  the  rough  draft;  the  other,  the 
finished  intellectual  ideal.  To  the  one  Satan  is  a Saxon  convict, 
— fastened  by  the  neck,  his  hands  manacled,  and  his  feet  bound;, 
to  the  other,  the  ideal  being, — 

‘Whose  stature  reached  the  sky,  and  on  whose  crest 
Sat  Horror  plumed.1 

The  precursor  of  a new  order  of  ideas,  standing  at  the  conflu- 
ence of  two  civilizations;  a monumental  figure  placed  between 
two  epochs  and  participating  in  their  two  characters,  as  a stream 
which,  flowing  between  two  different  soils,  is  tinged  by  both 
their  hues. 

Character. — Cheerful  and  kind,  able  to  obey  or  command;  ' 
attentive  and  punctual  in  the  performance  of  duty;  serious,  emi- 
nently religious,  fond  of  prayer.  ‘ He  never,’  writes  Bede,  ‘ could 
compose  frivolous  and  useless  poems,  but  those  alone  pertaining' 
to  religion  became  his  religious  tongue.’  A rough,  noble  ex- 
pression of  the  vague,  vast  mystery  of  the  world  and  of  man. 
A moment,  as  old  age  closes  upon  him,  he  lifts  the  veil,  and  we 
see,  as  we  read,  the  charity,  pathos,  resignation,  Northern  melan- 
choly, of  the  man: 

‘ Soul-longings  many  in  my  day  I’ve  had. 

My  life's  hope  now  is  that  the  Tree  of  Triumph 
Must  seek  I.  Than  all  others  oftener 
Did  I alone  extol  its  glories; 

Thereto  my  will  is  bent,  and  when  I need 
A claim  for  shelter,  to  the  Rood  I'll  go. 

Of  mightiest  friends,  from  me  are  many  now 
Unclasped,  and  far  away  from  our  world's  joys; 

They  sought  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  and  now  in  heaven, 

With  the  High-Father,  live  in  glee  and  glory; 

And  for  the  day  most  longingly  I wait, 


OUR  FIRST  HISTORIAN. 


145 


When  the  Saviour’s  Rood  that  here  I contemplate 
From  this  frail  life  shall  take  me  into  bliss, — 

The  bliss  of  Heaven’s  wards:  the  Lord's  folk  there 
Is  seated  at  the  feast;  there’s  joy  unending; 

And  He  shall  set  me  there  in  glory, 

And  with  the  saints  their  pleasures  I shall  share.’ 

Influence. — He  draped  the  Oriental  imagery  of  the  Bible  in 
the  English  fashion,  and  brought  it  within  the  comprehension  of 
the  humblest.  His  verses  became  part  of  the  people’s  thinking, 
created  for  it  a new  groove,  and  the  recollections  of  Valhalla 
paled  before  the  more  spiritual  and  real  splendors  of  the  New 
Elysium.  He  wrought  no  revolution  in  the  form  of  English 
song,  but  introduced  into  it,  through  the  faith  of  Christ,  new 
realms  of  fancy. 

In  our  rasping  life  of  gain,  we  are  apt  to  imagine  that  art 
is  of  little  account,  but  when  the  years  roll  by,  we  learn  well 
•enough  what  the  ages  value.  No  doubt  this  Caedmon,  in  his 
ill-furnished  room,  seemed  to  the  practical  man  of  trade  a pitiful 
cipher,  quite  out  of  the  march  of  important  affairs;  but  even 
their  names  are  forgotten,  and  all  their  wealth  would  now  be 
given  for  one  of  the  songs  of  the  Whitby  shepherd. 


BEDE. 

The  Father  of  English  learning.— Burke. 

Biography. — Born  in  the  county  of  Durham,  673;  at  seven, 
placed  in  the  newly-founded  monastery  of  St.  Peter,  Wearmouth; 
at  ten,  transferred  to  the  associated  monastery  of  St.  Paul,  Jar- 
row,  five  miles  distant.  Here,  during  the  remainder  of  his  life, 
in  retirement  and  prayer,  he  applied  himself  to  the  study  of 
Scripture  and  the  advancement  of  knowledge.  In  his  nineteenth 
year,  he  received  the  orders  of  deacon;  in  his  thirtieth,  those  of 
the  priesthood.  The  dignity  of  abbot  he  declined;  ‘for,’ said  he, 
i the  office  demands  household  care,  and  household  care  brings  with 
it  distraction  of  mind,  which  hinders  the  prosecution  of  learning.’ 
To  the  very  last  he  worked  hard,  teaching  his  numerous  dis- 
ciples and  compiling  in  Latin  from  the  venerable  Fathers.  Death 
comes  and  finds  him  still  at  work.  Under  an  attack  of  asthma, 
10 


146 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD — THE  LITERATURE. 


which  has  long  been  sapping  his  strength,  he  is  urging  forward 
an  English  version  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.  It  is  morning  on 
the  27th  of  May.  ‘Most  dear  master,’  says  one  of  his  pupils, 
‘there  is  still  one  chapter  wanting;  do  you  think  it  troublesome 
to  be  asked  any  more  questions?’ — ‘It  is  no  trouble,’  he  answers; 
‘take  thy  pen,  and  write  fast.’  At  noon,  he  takes  a solemn  fare- 
well of  his  friends,  distributing  among  them  treasured  spices 
and  other  gifts.  At  sunset  the  boy  says,  ‘Dear  master,  there  is 
yet  one  sentence  unwritten.’ — ‘Write  it  quickly,’  bids  the  dying- 
scholar.  ‘It  is  finished  now,’  says  the  scribe  at  last. — ‘You  have 
spoken  truly,’  is  the  reply,  ‘all  is  finished.  Receive  my  head 
into  your  hands;  for  it  is  a great  satisfaction  to  me  to  sit  facing 
my  holy  place,  where  I was  wont  to  pray.’  And  there  on  the 
pavement  of  his  little  cell,  in  the  year  735,  he  falls  into  his  last 
sleep  as  his  voice  reaches  the  close  of  the  solemn  chant,  ‘Glory 
be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost.’ 

A tranquil  death  becomes  the  man  of  science  or  the  scholar. 
The  coward  dies  panic-stricken;  the  superstitious  with  visions  of 
terror  floating  before  their  fancy:  he  who  has  a good  conscience 
and  a well-balanced  mind,  meets  death  with  calmness  and  hope. 
Heaven  has  but  ‘recalled  its  own.’ 

Writings. — The  work  which  immortalizes  his  name  is  the 
j Ecclesiastical  History  of  the  English  Nation  (731),  written  — 
like  nearly  all  his  works  — in  Latin.  A digest  of  ancient  records, 
of  tradition,  and  of  observation.  Though  tinged  with  the  cre- 
dulity of  his  time,  it  is  based  upon  inquiries  made  in  the  true 
spirit  of  a historian, — business-like,  yet  child-like,  practical,  and 
spiritual.  It  is  virtually  a history  of  England  brought  down  to 
the  date  of  its  completion. 

At  the  end  of  this  book,  he  gives  a list  of  his  compositions, — 
hymns,  commentaries,  and  homilies;  text-books  for  his  pupils, 
throwing  together  all  that  the  world  had  then  accumulated  in 
astronomy,  physics,  philosophy,  grammar,  rhetoric,  medicine,  and 
music.  Almost  the  last  words  that  broke  from  his  lips  were 
some  English  rhymes  upon  the  uncertainties  of  the  grave: 


Before  the  necessary  journey 

no  one  is 

wiser  of  thought 

than  he  hath  need, 

to  consider 


before  his  departure, 


what  for  his  spirit 
of  good  or  evil 


after  the  death-day 
shall  be  doomed.’ 


OUR  FIRST  HISTORIAN. 


147 


Style.  — Artless,  succinct,  moral,  and  reflective;  clear,  and 
often  warm  with  life. 

Rank. — Accomplished  in  the  classics  — a rare  accomplish- 
ment in  the  West,  skilled  in  the  ecclesiastical  chant,  and  master 
of  the  whole  range  of  the  science  of  his  day.  First  in  the  order 
of  time,  among  English  scholars,  and  first  among  English  histo- 
rians. The  glory  of  the  old  English  period.  The  living  encyclo- 
paedia of  his  age;  superior  perhaps  (so  dark  was  the  intellectual 
night  in  the  East,  as  in  the  West)  to  any  man  whom  the  world 
then  possessed.  Yet,  withal,  a great  man  of  talent,  not  a great 
man  of  genius;  a prodigious  worker  rather  than  a discoverer; 
a translator,  a commentator,  who,  amid  growing  anarchy  and 
gross  ignorance,  digests  and  compacts,  out  of  dull,  voluminous,  or 
almost  inaccessible  books,  what  seems  good  and  useful, — doing 
for  the  rest  what  they  are  unable  to  do  for  themselves. 

Character. — Gentle,  pure,  simple-minded,  earnest,  and  de- 
vout. Learning  but  deepened  the  lustre  of  his  piety.  His  soul 
was  a sanctuary  lighted  up  with  the  lamps  of  angels,  and  dedi- 
cated to  the  high  service  of  man  and  his  Maker.  By  nature  a 
student,  his  paradise  was  introspective.  4 My  constant  pleasure,’ 
he  says,  4 lay  in  learning,  or  teaching,  or  writing.’  In  acquiring* 
and  communicating,  his  industry  was  marvellous.  Besides  the 
usual  manual  labors  of  the  monastery,  the  duties  of  the  priest, 
and  the  occupation  of  teacher,  forty-five  treatises  remained  after 
his  death  to  attest  his  habitual  activity.  All  this  was  done  with 
small  aid  from  others.  4 1 am  my  own  secretary,’  he  writes;  ‘I 
make  my  own  notes;  I am  my  own  librarian.’ 

Influence. — From  his  Ecclesiastical  History  we  learn  nearly 
all  that  we  know  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  and  their  Church.  He  is 
the  first  figure  to  which  our  English  science  looks  back,  and  the 
father  of  English  national  education.  Six  hundred  monks,  be- 
sides the  strangers  that  flocked  hither  for  instruction,  formed  his 
school  of  Jarrow;  and  Northumbria  became,  for  a period,  the 
literary  centre  of  Western  Europe.  Dissensions  and  confusion, 
attending  the  disintegration  of  the  original  political  system,  will 
bruise  this  humble  plant,  and  the  wars  with  the  Danes  will  com- 
plete the  blight  of  its  promise.  Yet  will  it  have,  silently,  insen- 
sibly, a numerous  and  illustrious  progeny.  Centuries  hence,  his 


148 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


theological  and  educational  works  will  be  held  in  esteem  as 
authorities  and  text-books.  The  light  that  issues  from  Jarrow 
extends  to  York;  Alcuin,  by  the  invitation  of  Charlemagne,  car- 
ries it  thence  to  the  Continent;  French  statesmanship  and  Saxon 
scholarship  go  hand  in  hand  to  diffuse  mediaeval  civilization;  and 
so,  while  the  fields  are  wasted  by  violence,  famine,  and  plague, 
the  Venerable  Bede  is  as  a tree  planted  by  the  river’s  side;  his 
branches  shall  spread,  and  his  beauty  be  as  the  olive,  and  his 
smell  as  Lebanon;  and  what  though  he  dare  not  speak,  they  that 
dwell  under  his  shadow  shall  return, — they  shall  revive  as  the 
corn  and  grow  as  the  vine. 


ALFRED. 

The  most  perfect  character  in  history.  He  is  a singular  instance  of  a prince  who 
has  become  a hero  of  romance,  who,  as  such,  has  had  countless  imaginary  exploits 
attributed  to  him,  but  to  whose  character  romance  has  done  no  more  than  justice,  and 
who  appears  in  exactly  the  same  light  in  history  and  in  fable. — Freeman. 

Biography. — Born  at  Wantage,  849.  Sent  to  Rome  at  five, 
anointed  by  the  Pope,  and  adopted  as  his  spiritual  son;  again, 
two  years  later,  travelling  in  the  train  of  a king,  now  at  the 
court  of  the  grandson  of  Charlemagne,  now  at  the  castles  of 
warrior  nobles,  now  with  the  learned  prelates  — across  the  Alps  — 
through  the  garden  of  the  world  — renewing  the  memories  of  his 
childhood  amid  the  ruins,  shrines,  and  palaces  of  the  Eternal 
City, — what  an  episode  in  his  young  life  for  observation  and 
thought!  Returning,  he  learns,  with  the  young  nobles  of  Wes- 
sex, to  run,  leap,  wrestle,  and  hunt;  illiterate  at  twelve,  and 
during  the  period  of  youth,  though  a lover  of  wisdom,  without 
the  advantages  of  special  tuition.  Marries  at  twenty,  while 
England  is  growing  dark  under  the  shadow  of  a tremendous 
storm;  within  six  weeks,  is  in  arms;  at  twenty-three,  ascends  the 
tottering  throne  of  his  fathers,  when  nine  pitched  battles  have 
been  fought;  reduces  the  pagan  leaders  to  sue  humbly  for  peace, 
and  three  months  later,  in  January,  is  obliged  to  flee,  with  a 
scanty  band  of  followers,  into  the  forest  of  Selwood.  Here,  in 
disguise,  in  a herdman’s  hut,  by  the  burning  logs  on  the  hearth, 


THE  TYPICAL  KING. 


149 


he  mends  his  bow  and  arrows.  The  good  house-wife  confides  to 
his  care  her  baking  loaves:  but  his  thought  is  elsewhere,  and 
they  are  burning  rapidly  to  cinders.  The  irate  woman,  running 
, up  to  remove  them,  exclaims: 

‘Ca'sn  thee  mind  the  ke-aks,  man,  an’  doossen  zee  'em  burn? 

I’m  bound  thee’s  eat  'em  vast  enough  az  zoon  az  'tis  the  turn!’ 

Near  Easter  a gleam  of  good  news  from  the  west  gladdens  the 
hearts  of  the  wanderers;  and  in  the  lengthening  days  of  spring, 
strong  men  and  true  are  rallied,  for  word  is  abroad  that  the  hero- 
king  is  alive;  the  spirit  of  the  red-handed  Dane  is  broken,  and  in 
the  resulting  fusion  of  elements  are  laid  the  foundations  of  a 
better  England.  The  messengers  of  death  are  also  the  messen- 
gers of  resurrection.  There  is  leisure  now  for  reform,  and  for 
upwards  of  four  precious  years  King  Alfred  pushes  forward  the 
work  of  internal  repair  and  improvement  — material  and  educa- 
tional. But  in  the  middle  of  reforms,  while  the  country  is  thrill- 
ing with  awakening  life,  the  war-cloud  gathers  again,  and  he  pre- 
pares to  meet  another  great  wave  of  invasion.  The  final  issue  is 
tried  between  Christian  and  Pagan.  In  three  years  the  Saxon 
prevails — ‘Thanks  be  to  God,’  says  the  Chronicle.  Thenceforth 
his  reign  is  devoted  to  raising  the  slothful  and  stolid  nation  out 
of  the  exhaustion  in  which  the  life-and-death  struggle  have  left 
it.  Worn  out  by  the  constant  stress  of  government  and  a grievous 
but  unknown  complaint,  which  the  physicians  ascribed  to  the 
spite  of  the  Devil,  he  died  on  the  26th  of  October,  901,  in  the 
fifty-second  year  of  his  age,  closing  his  eyes  on  peace  at  home 
and  abroad.  The  good  die  early;  the  world’s  hardest  workers 
and  noblest  benefactors  rarely  burn  to  the  socket. 

Writings. — Chiefly  translations  into  English  of  the  popular 
manuals  of  the  time,  omitting  here  and  expanding  there,  as  might 
be  needful  for  English  use: 

Bede’s  Ecclesiastical  History  of  England.  Perhaps  rever- 
ence for  the  venerable  author  caused  him  to  present  it  without 
change  or  addition.  It  seems  likely  that  his  rendering  of  this 
work  gave  the  first  impulse  toward  the  compilation  of  the  Saxon 
Chronicle. 

Orosius ’ Universal  History , whose  scope  is  thus  characteristi- 
cally summed  up  by  its  author  — a Spaniard  of  the  fifth  century: 

‘I  have  now  set  out  by  the  help  of  Christ,  and  in  obedience  to  yonr  desire,  O most 
blessed  father  Augustine,  the  lusts  and  punishments  of  sinfuJ  men,  the  conflicts  of  the 


150 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


ages,  and  the  judgments  of  God,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  the  present  time; 
that  is  to  say,  for  5617  years.’ 

The  text  — dull  enough,  though  probably  the  best  account  of 
human  affairs  available  to  Alfred  — is  enriched  with  the  new 
geographical  discoveries  in  the  North,  including  reports  of  the 
Northern  voyages  made  by  two  of  his  sea-captains.  With  gossip 
worthy  of  Herodotus,  we  are  told: 

‘Eastland  is  very  large,  and  there  are  in  it  many  towns,  and  in  every  town  a king; 
and  there  is  also  great  abundance  of  honey  and  fish;  and  the  king  and  the  richest  men 
drink  mare's  milk,  and  the  poor  and  the  slaves  drink  mead.  They  have  many  contests 
among  themselves;  and  there  is  no  ale  brewed  among  the  Esthonians,  for  there  is  mead 
enough.’ 

Funerals  are  postponed  by  the  relatives  as  long  as  possible, 
according  to  the  riches  of  the  deceased;  kings  and  the  great 
lying  in  state  for  half  a year:  for  — 

‘There  is  a tribe  which  can  produce  cold,  and  so  the  dead  in  whom  they  produce 
that  cold  lie  very  long  there  and  do  not  putrefy;  and  if  any  one  sets  two  vessels  full  of 
ale  or  water,  they  contrive  that  one  shall  be  frozen,  be  it  summer  or  be  it  winter.’ 

The  living  drink  and  sport,  till  the  day  of  burial  or  burning: 

‘On  that  day  they  divide  the  dead  man’s  property  into  five  or  six  portions,  according 
to  value,  and  place  it  out,  the  largest  portion  about  a mile  from  the  dwelling  where  the 
dead  man  lies,  then  another,  then  a third,  and  so  on  till  it  is  all  laid  within  the  mile. 
Then  all  the  neighbors  within  five  or  six  miles  who  have  swift  horses,  meet  and  ride 
towards  the  property;  and  he  who  has  the  swiftest  horse  comes  to  the  first  and  largest 
portion,  and  so  each  after  other  till  the  whole  is  taken ; and  he  takes  the  least  portion 
who  takes  that  which  is  nearest  the  dwelling:  and  then  every  one  rides  away  with  the 
property,  and  they  may  have  it  all;  and  on  this  account  swift  horses  are  there  exces- 
sively dear.’ 

Boethius ’ Consolations  of  Philosophy,  the  hand-book  of  the 
Middle  Ages  for  the  serious.  ‘A  golden  book,’  says  Gibbon, 
‘not  unworthy  the  leisure  of  Plato  or  Tully.’  Few  books  are 
more  striking  from  the  circumstances  of  their  production.  It 
was  written  in  prison,  in  the  dying-swan-like  tones  of  Aurelius. 
The  reflections  that  consoled  the  writer  in  bonds  were  soon 
required  to  support  him  in  the  hour  of  his  execution.  To  him 
whose  soul  is  his  country,  a dungeon  is  the  vestibule  of  Heaven. 
The  mind,  shut  out  from  this  scene  of  sensible  things,  retires 
into  its  own  infinite  domain.  In  Milton  and  Bunyan  we  shall 
see  how  wide,  when  the  outer  world  loses  its  charms,  the  inner 
opens  its  gates. 

The  burden  of  the  work  is,  that  a wise  God  rules  the  world; 
that  man  in  his  worst  extremity  possesses  much,  and  ought  to 
fix  his  thoughts  on  the  imperishable;  that  God  is  the  chief  good. 


THE  TYPICAL  KING. 


151 


and  works  no  evil;  that,  as  seen  in  Eternity,  only  the  good  are 
happy;  that  God’s  foreknowledge  is  reconcilable  with  the  free- 
will of  man.  It  is  a work  congenial  to  Alfred’s  thinking;  for 
he,  like  Boethius,  has  known  adversity.  Moreover,  he  would 
give  to  his  people  a system  of  moral  precepts.  To  do  this,  he 
must  stoop  as  to  a child;  for  his  audience  has  never  thought  or 
known  anything.  In  this  style  — asking  his  readers  to  pray  for 
him  and  not  to  blame  him  for  his  imperfect  attainments  — he 
renders  the  refined  sentiments  and  classical  allusions  of  the  grand 
Roman  Senator: 

lIt  happened  formerly  that  there  was  a harper  in  the  country  called  Thrace,  which 
was  in  Greece.  The  harper  was  inconceivably  good.  His  name  was  Orpheus.  He  had 
a very  excellent  wife,  called  Eurydice.  Then  began  men  to  say  concerning  the  harper, 
that  he  could  harp  so  that  the  wood  moved,  and  the  stones  stirred  themselves  at  the 
sound,  and  wild  beasts  would  run  thereto,  and  stand  as  if  they  were  tame ; so  still,  that 
though  men  or  hounds  pursued  them,  they  shunned  them  not.  Then  said  they  that 
the  harper’s  wife  should  die,  and  her  soul  should  be  led  to  hell.  Then  should  the  harper 
become  so  sorrowful  that  he  could  not  remain  among  the  men,  but  frequented  the  wood, 
and  sat  on  the  mountains,  both  day  and  night,  weeping  and  harping,  so  that  the  woods 
shook,  and  the  rivers  stood  still,  and  no  hart  shunned  any  lion,  nor  hare  any  hound; 
nor  did  cattle  know  any  hatred,  or  any  fear  of  others,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  sound. 
Then  it  seemed  to  the  harper  that  nothing  in  this  world  pleased  him.  Then  thought 
he  that  he  would  seek  the  gods  of  hell,  and  endeavour  to  allure  them  with  his  harp, 
and  pray  that  they  would  give  him  back  his  wife.  When  he  came  thither,  then  should 
there  come  towards  him  the  dog  of  hell,  whose  name  was  Cerberus, — he  should  have 
three  heads,— and  began  to  wag  his  tail,  and  play  with  him  for  his  harping.  Then  was 
there  also  a very  horrible  gatekeeper,  whose  name  should  be  Charon.  He  had  also 
three  heads,  and  he  was  very  old.  Then  began  the  harper  to  beseech  him  that  he  would 
protect  him  while  he  was  there,  and  bring  him  thence  again  safe.  Then  did  he  promise 
that  to  him,  because  he  was  desirous  of  the  unaccustomed  sound.  Then  went  he  further 
until  he  met  the  fierce  goddesses,  whom  the  common  people  call  Parcre,  of  whom  they 
say  that  they  know  no  respect  for  any  man,  but  punish  every  man  according  to  his 
deeds;  and  of  whom  they  say  that  they  control  every  man's  fortune.  Then  began  he 
to  implore  their  mercy.  Then  began  they  to  weep  with  him.  Then  went  he  farther, 
and  all  the  inhabitants  of  hell  ran  towards  him,  and  led  him  to  their  king;  and  all  began 
to  speak  with  him,  and  to  pray  that  which  he  prayed.  And  the  restless  wheel  which 
Ixion,  the  king  of  the  Lapittne,  was  bound  to  for  his  guilt,  that  stood  still  for  his  harp- 
ing. And  Tantalus  the  king,  who  in  this  world  was  immoderately  greedy,  and  whom 
that  same  vice  of  greediness  followed  there,  he  became  quiet.  And  the  vulture  should 
cease,  so  that  he  tore  not  the  liver  of  Tityus  the  king,  which  before  therewith  tor- 
mented him.  And  all  the  punishments  of  the  inhabitants  of  hell  were  suspended 
whilst  he  harped  before  the  king.  When  he  long  and  long  had  harped,  then  spoke  the 
king  of  the  inhabitants  of  hell,  and  said,  “Let  tis  give  the  man  his  wife,  for  he  has 
earned  her  by  his  harping.”  He  then  commanded  him  that  he  should  well  observe  that 
he  never  looked  backwards  after  he  departed  thence;  and  said  if  he  looked  backwards, 
that  he  should  lose  the  woman.  But  men  can  with  great  difficulty,  if  at  all,  restrain 
love!  Wellaway!  What!  Orpheus  then  led  his  wife  with  him  till  he  came  to  the 
boundary  of  light  and  darkness.  Then  went  his  wife  after  him.  When  he  came  forth 
into  the  light,  then  looked  he  behind  his  back  towards  the  woman.  Then  was  she  im- 
mediately lost  to  him.  This  fable  teaches  every  man  who  desires  to  fly  the  darkness 
of  hell,  and  to  come  to  the  light  of  true  good,  that  he  look  not  about  him  to  his  old 
vices,  so  that  he  practise  them  again  as  fully  as  he  did  before.  For  whosoever  with  full 


152 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


will  turns  his  mind  to  the  vices  which  he  had  before  forsaken,  and  practises  them,  and 
they  then  fully  please  him,  and  he  never  thinks  of  forsaking  them;  then  loses  he  all 
his  former  good  unless  he  again  amend  it.’ 

Gregory , on  the  Care  of  the  Soul , which  seemed  to  Alfred  a 
most  suitable  manual  for  the  clergy  in  their  lethargic  state.  It 
is  in  the  preface  to  this  work  that  he  tells  us  of  the  sad  decay  of 
learning  in  his  kingdom,  and  of  his  desire  for  its  true  restoration: 

‘ I wish  you  to  know  that  it  often  occurs  to  my  mind  to  consider  what  manner  of 
wise  men  there  were  formerly  in  the  English  nation,  both  spiritual  and  temporal,  and 
how  happy  the  times  then  were  among  the  English,  and  how  well  the  kings  behaved  in 
their  domestic  government,  and  how  they  prospered  in  knowledge  and  wisdom.  I con- 
sidered also  how  earnest  God’s  ministers  then  were,  as  well  about  preaching  as  about 
learning,  and  men  came  from  foreign  countries  to  seek  wisdom  and  doctrine  in  this 
land,  and  how  we,  who  live  in  these  times,  are  obliged  to  go  abroad  to  get  them.  To  so 
low  a depth  has  learning  fallen  among  the  English  nation,  that  there  have  been  very 
few  on  this  side  of  the  Humber,  who  were  able  to  understand  the  English  of  their  ser- 
vice, or  to  turn  an  epistle  out  of  Latin  into  English;  and  1 know  there  were  not  many 
beyond  the  Humber  who  could  do  it.  There  were  so  few,  that  I cannot  think  of  one  on 
the  south  side  of  the  Thames  when  I first  began  to  reign.  God  Almighty  be  thanked 
that  we  have  always  a teacher  in  the  pulpit  now.  . . . When  I thought  of  all  this,  I fan- 
cied also  that  I saw  (before  everything  was  ravaged  and  burned)  how  all  the  churches 
throughout  the  English  nation  stood  full  of  books,  though  at  that  time  they  gathered 
very  little  fruit  from  their  books,  not  being  able  to  understand  them,  because  they  were 
not  written  in  their  own  language.  For  which  reason  I think  it  best,  if  you  too  think  so, 
that  we  should  turn  into  the  language,  which  we  all  of  us  know,  some  such  books  as  are 
deemed  most  useful  for  all  men  to  understand.  . . . When  I reflected  how  this  learning 
of  the  Latin  tongue  had  fallen  throughout  the  English  nation,  though  many  knew  how  to 
read  English  writing,  I then  began  in  the  midst  of  divers  and  manifold  affairs  of  this 
kingdom,  to  turn  into  Anglo-Saxon  this  book,  which  in  Latin  is  named  Pastorcilis,  and 
in  Anglo-Saxon  the  Herdsman' s Book;  and  I will  send  one  of  them  to  every  bishop’s  see 
in  my  kingdom.’ 

Proverbs , compiled  in  the  reign  of  Henry  IT,  and  lienee  in  the 
broken  dialect  of  the  transition  period.  They  mirror  a wise  and 
benevolent  spirit.  The  scholar  and  the  man  outshine  the  king. 
We  know  him  better  and  honor  him  more  when  we  read  from  his 
own  lips: 

‘The  right  nobility  is  in  the  mind,  not  in  the  flesh.’ 

‘Power  is  never  a good  unless  he  be  good  that  has  it;  and  that  is  the  good  of  the 
man,  not  of  the  power.’ 

‘Learn  therefore  wisdom;  and  when  you  have  learned  it,  do  not  neglect  it.  I tell 
you  then,  without  any  doubt,  that  by  it  you  may  come  to  power,  though  you  should  not 
desire  the  power.’ 

In  almost  the  last  of  the  series,  he  addresses  his  son: 

1 My  dear  son,  set  thee  now  beside  me,  and  I will  deliver  thee  true  instructions.  My 
son,  I feel  that  my  hour  is  coming.  My  countenance  is  wan.  My  days  are  almost  done. 
We  must  now  part.  I shall  go  to  another  world,  and  thou  shalt  be  left  alone  in  all  my 
wealth.  I pray  thee  (for  thou  art  my  dear  child),  strive  to  be  a father  and  a lord  to  thy 
people;  be  thou  the  children's  father  and  the  widow’s  friend;  comfort  thou  the  poor 
and  shelter  the  weak;  and  with  all  thy  might,  right  that  which  is  wrong.  And,  son, 
govern  thyself  by  law;  then  shall  the  Lord  love  thee,  and  God  above  all  things  shall  be 


THE  TYPICAL  KING. 


153 


thy  reward.  Call  thou  upon  Him  to  advise  thee  in  all  thy  need,  and  so  He  shall  help  thee 
the  better  to  compass  that  which  thou  wishest.’ 

Some  truths  and  precepts  are  like  diamonds,  which  may  be  set 
a hundred  times  in  as  many  generations  without  loss  of  beauty 
or  of  lustre. 

Style.  — Artless,  earnest,  but  sober;  abrupt,  yet  long  drawn 
out;  practical  and  moral,  like  the  man;  idiomatic  in  vocabulary 
and  arrangement,  showing  a strong  repugnance  to  the  importa- 
tion of  foreign  words,  a quality  certainly  due  in  part  to  his  object 
— the  instruction  of  a barbarous  audience. 

Character. — Tradition  tells  of  his  genial  good-nature,  his  love 
of  song,  his  eager  desire  for  knowledge  and  the  improvement  of 
society.  His  words,  and  the  books  selected  as  the  objects  of  his 
chief  efforts,  indicate  strongly  the  union  of  zeal  with  moderation, 
of  practical  judgment  with  serious  and  elevated  sentiment,  of 
untiring  industry  with  eminent  piety.  How  or  when  he  learned 
to  read  or  write,  we  know  not.  Asser,  his  contemporary,  says: 

‘His  noble  nature  implanted  in  him  from  his  cradle  a love  of  wisdom  above  all  things; 
but,  with  shame  be  it  spoken,  by  the  unworthy  neglect  of  his  parents  and  nurses,  he 
remained  illiterate  even  till  he  was  twelve  years  old  or  more;  but  he  listened  with 
serious  attention  to  the  Saxon  poems  which  he  often  heard  recited,  and  easily  retained 
them  in  his  docile  memory.’ 

And  again: 

‘This  he  confessed,  with  many  lamentations  and  sighs,  to  have  been  one  of  his 
greatest  difficulties  and  impediments  in  this  life,  namely,  that  when  he  was  young  and 
had  the  capacity  for  learning,  he  could  not  find  teachers.’ 

Careful  of  detail  and  methodical,  he  carries  in  his  bosom  a note- 
book in  which  he  jots  down  things  as  they  strike  him;  now  a 
prayer,  now  a story,  now  an  event,  now  an  image.  Asser,  in- 
structed to  write  in  it  a passage  which  he  has  just  read  to  the 
king,  says: 

‘ But  I could  not  find  any  empty  space  in  that  book  wherein  to  write  the  quotation, 
for  it  was  already  full  of  various  matters.’ 

Four  priests  read  to  him  whenever  he  has  leisure,  Asser  among 
the  number: 

‘I  read  to  him  whatever  books  he  liked,  and  such  as  he  had  at  hand;  for  this  is  his 
usual  custom,  both  night  and  day,  amid  his  many  other  occupations  of  mind  and  body, 
either  himself  to  read  books,  or  to  listen  whilst  others  read  them.’ 

But  there  is  a God  in  this  universe,  and  a God’s  sanction,  with 
which  a nation  may  not  dispense  without  peril,  nor  a man  without 


154 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


decay  of  the  heart  and  dimming  of  the  eye.  Without  a realized 
sense  of  the  divine,  the  intellect  can  have  no  clear  vision  on  moral 
mountains,  nor  the  national  character  become  great,  firm  and 
glorious.  A lost  faith  or  an  indifferent  faith  is  fatal  to  all  high 
ideal.  Alfred  has  neither.  The  strong  moral  bent  of  his  mind  is 
seen  in  some  of  the  novelties  of  his  legislation.  He  believes  there 
is  an  order  from  everlasting,  and  declares  it  as  he  understands  it, 
without  balancing  expediencies  or  plausibilities.  His  ‘Dooms,’ 
.accordingly,  are  an  almost  literal  transcript  of  the  Decalogue, 
with  selections  from  the  Mosaic  code;  as, — 

‘These  are  the  dooms  that  thou  shalt  set  them:— If  any  one  buy  a Christian  bonds- 
man, be  he  bondsman  to  him  six  years,  the  seventh  be  he  free  unbonght.  With  such 
clothes  as  he  went  in,  with  such  go  he  out.  If  he  himself  have  a wife,  go  she  out  with 
him.  If,  however,  the  lord  gave  him  a wife,  go  she  and  her  bairn  the  lord’s.  If  then  the 
bondsman  say,  I will  not  go  from  my  lord,  nor  from  my  wife,  nor  from  my  bairn,  nor 
from  my  goods,  let  then  his  lord  bring  him  to  the  church  door,  and  drill  through  his  ear 
with  an  awl,  to  witness  that  he  be  ever  thenceforth  a bondsman.’ 1 

Amid  the  cares  of  state,  racked  by  almost  ceaseless  pain,  he  finds 
time  for  daily  religious  services: 

‘Because  he  feared  the  anger  of  God,  if  he  should  do  anything  contrary  to  his  will, 
he  used  often  to  rise  in  the  morning  at  the  cock-crow,  and  go  to  pray  in  the  churches 
and  at  the  relics  of  the  saints.’ 

He  consecrates  to  God  the  half  of  his  possible  services,  bodily 
and  mental.  To  prove  his  sincerity,  he  contrives  a time-piece  for 
the  more  exact  measurement  of  the  hours,  since  at  night  on 
account  of  the  darkness,  and  frequently  at  day  on  account  of  the 
clouds,  he  cannot  always  accurately  estimate  them.  He  has  six 
candles  made,  of  equal  length,  each  with  twelve  divisions  or  rings. 
Lighted  in  succession,  they  burn  a night  and  a day: 

‘But  sometimes  when  they  would  not  continue  burning  a whole  day  and  night,  till 
the  same  hour  that  they  were  lighted  the  preceding  evening,  from  the  violence  of  the 
wind,  which  blew  day  and  night  without  intermission  through  the  doors  and  windows  of 
the  churches,  the  fissures  of  the  divisions,  the  plankings,  or  the  wall,  or  the  thin  canvas 
of  the  tents,  they  then  unavoidably  burned  out  and  finished  their  course  before  the 
appointed  time;  the  king  therefore  considered  by  what  means  he  might  shut  out  the 
wind,  and  so  by  a useful  and  cunning  invention,  he  ordered  a lantern  to  be  beautifully 
constructed  of  wood  and  white  ox-horn,  which  when  skilfully  planed  till  it  is  thin,  is  no 
less  transparent  than  a vessel  of  glass.’ 

Though  simple  and  kindly  in  temper,  he  is  a stern  inquisitor  in 
executing  justice.  He  has  twenty-four  officers  hung  for  corrup- 
tion in  the  judgment-seat. 

Affable  and  liberal,  patient,  brave,  just,  and  temperate,  with  a 


See  Exodus  xxi,  1-6. 


THE  TYPICAL  KING. 


155 


clear  conscience  he  may  testify:  ‘This  I can  now  truly  say,  that 
so  long  as  I have  lived  I have  striven  to  live  worthily,  and  after 
my  death  to  leave  my  memory  to  my  descendants  in  good  works.’ 

Rank. — Without  the  genius  to  invent  and  originate,  he  had 
the  talent  to  adapt  means  to  ends,  to  develop  and  improve  the 
old,  to  think  what  the  many  think  and  cannot  yet  say.  A great 
gift,  no  doubt.  It  is  men  of  great  talent  who  occupy  the  head- 
lands of  society.  In  politics,  in  war,  in  letters,  Alfred  simply 
takes  what  is  nearest  and  makes  the  best  of  it.  As  an  author,  he 
is  like  Bede,  a teacher  of  semi-barbarians,  who  tries  not  to  create 
but  to  compile,  to  pick  out  and  explain  from  Greek  and  Latin 
stories  something  which  may  suit  the  people  of  his  age;  as  a 
father  who  draws  his  little  boy  between  his  knees,  and  with  much 
pains  relates  a fairy  tale  or  makes  an  idea  clear  by  visible  and 
tangible  things. 

There  is  no  evidence  of  the  imaginative  qualities  which  mark 
the  higher  statesman.  His  sphere  of  action,  indeed,  was  too 
narrow  to  justify  his  comparison,  politically  or  intellectually,  with 
the  immortal  few.  What  really  lifts  him  to  their  level  is  the 
moral  grandeur  of  his  life.  Nay,  his  altitude  is  the  greater  in 
proportion  as  wisdom  is  above  knowledge,  and  goodness  above 
genius,  or  spiritual  growth  above  mental  culture.  Among 
recorded  rulers  he  is  unique.  What  other  has  possessed  so 
many  virtues  with  so  little  alloy?  A soldier,  a statesman,  a law- 
giver, a lover  of  learning,  and  an  author  of  repute;  a prince  with- 
out personal  ambition,  all  whose  wars  were  fought  in  his  coun- 
try’s defense,  who  bore  adversity  with  noble  fortitude  and  wore 
his  laurels  in  noble  simplicity,  steering  the  ship  of  state,  with  a 
turbulent  crew,  through  a stormy  sea, — there  is  none  like  him. 
Of  no  other  will  it  ever  be  said  that  he  is  ‘England’s  darling.’ 

Influence. — Solicitous  of  his  own  enlightenment,  he  never 
forgot  that  his  first  duty  was  to  his  people.  He  educated  himself 
(nearly  forty  before  he  acquired  an  imperfect  acquaintance  with 
Latin)  that  he  might  educate  them.  He  rebuilt  monasteries, 
and  made  them  educational  centres;  superintended  a school  in 
his  own  palace,  sent  abroad  for  instructors,  and  desired  that 
every  free-born  youth  who  possessed  the  means  should  ‘ abide  at 
his  book  till  he  well  understand  English  writing’;  had  skilled 


156 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


mechanics  brought  from  the  Continent,  who  built  houses,  says 
Asser,  6 majestic  and  good  beyond  all  the  precedents  of  his  ances- 
tors.’ His  legislation  left  imperishable  traces  upon  England.  In 
his  court,  at  his  impulse,  perchance  in  his  very  words,  English 
history  begins.1  True  the  light  will  wane  and  flicker.  The  flood 
of  national  calamity,  rising  ominously  during  his  life,  shall  seem 
to  sweep  utterly  away  the  ripening  harvest  of  Saxon  civilization; 
but  force  is  indestructible;  and  that  spirit  of  moral  strength,  felt 
afar  off,  lives  still  beneath  the  sun,  as  seed  springs  from  seed. 
The  oak  dies,  but  the  acorn  lives.  Each  moral  world  is  related 
to  many  others.  The  novels  of  Scott  produce  the  historical 
works  of  Guizot  and  Thiers;  the  voice  of  Demosthenes,  though 
it  has  long  since  died  away  over  his  native  shores,  heaves  many  a 
living  breast;  and  the  heart  of  Paul,  whose  head  was  claimed  by 
Nero  long  ago,  beats  sacred  music  in  a thousand  pulpits. 


ROGER  BACON. 


Xaipere  Kij pvKes  Aio?  ayyeAoi  r\he  icai  avSpOjv. 

Hail,  Heralds,  messengers  of  God  and  men ! — Homer. 

Biography. — Born  in  the  county  of  Somerset,  1214,  of  a 
wealthy  family,  which  had  been  driven  into  exile  and  reduced 
to  poverty  by  the  civil  wars.  Studied  at  Oxford,  then  at  Paris, 
as  was  at  that  time  the  custom  of  learned  Englishmen,  and  there 
received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity.  His  whole  heritage 
was  spent  in  costly  studies  and  experiments.  Soon  after  his 
return  home,  withdrawing  from  the  civil  strife  fermenting  be- 
tween the  baronage  and  the  Crown,  he  became  a mendicant 
friar  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis,  and  settled  at  Oxford,  devoting 
himself  to  study  with  extraordinary  fervor,  notwithstanding  the 
discipline  of  the  Franciscans,  who  looked  upon  books  and  study 
as  hinderances  to  their  appointed  mission  of  preaching  among 
the  masses  of  the  poor.  Physics  seems  to  have  been  the  chief 
object  of  his  labors,  and  liberal  friends  of  science  supplied  him 
with  means  for  pursuing  his  researches.  His  spreading  fame 


That  is,  English  history  expressed  in  the  vernacular. 


HERALD  OF  THE  COMING  DAY. 


157 


was  mingled  with  suspicions  of  his  dealings  in  magic;  and  the 
prejudice  of  the  ignorant  was  encouraged  by  the  jealousy  of  his 
superiors  and  brethren.  An  accusation  was  brought  against  him 
at  the  Papal  court,  and  he  was  interdicted  from  teaching  in  the 
university.  For  ten  years  he  was  under  constant  supervision, 
forbidden  to  publish  anything  under  pain  of  forfeiture  of  the 
book  and  penance  of  bread  and  water.  The  pope,  who  had 
heard  of  his  rare  acquirements,  requested  him  to  write.  Friends 
raised  the  necessary  money  by  pawning  their  goods,  upon  the 
understanding  that  their  loan  should  be  made  known  to  the 
Holy  See.  Within  fifteen  months,  despite  all  obstacles,  three 
large  treatises1  were  dispatched  to  Rome,  ‘on  account  of  the 
danger  of  roads  and  the  possible  loss  of  the  work,’  by  a youth 
who  had  been  trained  and  educated  with  great  care  by  Bacon 
himself.  In  1278,  a vehement  reformer  ere  the  current  of  opinion 
had  turned  against  former  establishments,  he  was  thrown  into 
prison,  where  he  remained  fourteen  years.  In  1294,  when  his 
life  had  almost  covered  the  thirteenth  century,  the  old  man 
died,  having  endured  the  obloquy  of  all  revolutionists  who  are 
not  themselves  creatures  of  the  revolution. 

"Writings. — His  monumental  work  is  the  Opus  Jtfajus  (1267). 
It  is  divided  into  six  parts: 

Part  I treats  of  the  sources  of  error  and  causes  of  igno- 
rance,— authority,  custom,  popular  opinion,  and  ostentatious 
pride.  Like  a careful  and  ambitious  builder,  filled  with  a new 
grand  idea  of  nature  and  life,  he  lays  a sure  foundation  for  the 
vast  superstructure  which  his  plan  embraces.  Without  certain 
practical  conditions,  a speculative  knowledge  of  the  most  perfect 
method  of  procedure  remains  barren  and  unapplied.  Bacon  the 
Friar  proves  his  kinship  with  the  great  lights  of  the  world  by  his 
precepts,  similar  to  theirs,  on  the  disposition  proper  to  philosophy. 
Before  him,  Socrates  had  said:  ‘To  attain  to  a knowledge  of 
ourselves  we  must  banish  prejudice,  passion  and  sloth.’  Bacon 
the  Chancellor  was  yet  to  say:  ‘If  the  human  intellect  hath 
once  taken  a liking  to  any  doctrine,  either  because  received  and 
credited,  or  because  otherwise  pleasing, — it  draws  everything 

1 Opus  Majus , Opus  Minus , and  Opus  Tertium;  or,  The  Greater  Work , The  Less  Work , 
and  The  Third  Work.  The  Minus  is  little  more  than  a summary  of  the  Majus , and  the 
Tertium  an  appendix  to  it;  both  still  exist  unpublished  in  the  Cottonian  and  other 
libraries. 


158 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


else  into  harmony  with  that  doctrine  and  to  its  support.’  And 
Sir  W.  Raleigh:  ‘It  is  opinion,  not  truth,  that  travelleth  the 
world  without  passport.’  ‘Opinion,’  says  the  great  Pascal,  ‘dis- 
poses of  all  things.  It  constitutes  beauty,  justice,  happiness.’ 
And  the  pious  Charon:  ‘Almost  every  opinion  we  have,  we 
have  but  by  authority;  we  believe,  judge,  act,  live,  and  die  on 
trust;  a common  custom  teaches  us.’  Vanity,  self-love,  tradition- 
ary habit,  the  prestige  of  a great  name,  are  powerful  impedi- 
ments to  a progress  in  knowledge.  Unless  we  can  cast  off  the 
prejudices  of  the  man  and  become  as  little  children,  docile  and 
unperverted,  we  need  never  hope  to  enter  the  temple  of  science. 
Let  us  not  follow  the  philosophers  of  antiquity  with  a too  pro- 
found deference.  They,  and  especially  Aristotle,  are  not  infalli- 
ble. ‘We  find  their  books,’  says  Bacon,  ‘full  of  doubts,  obscuri- 
ties, and  perplexities.  They  scarce  agree  with  each  other  in  one 
empty  question  or  one  worthless  sophism,  or  one  operation  of 
science,  as  one  man  agrees  with  another  in  the  practical  opera- 
tions of  medicine,  surgery,  and  the  like  arts  of  secular  men.’ 

‘ Indeed,’  he  adds,  ‘ not  only  the  philosophers,  but  the  saints  have 
fallen  into  errors  which  they  have  afterwards  retracted.’ 

Part  II  treats  of  the  relation  between  philosophy  and  theol- 
ogy. All  true  wisdom  is  contained  in  the  Scriptures;  and  the 
true  end  of  philosophy  is  to  rise  from  an  imperfect  knowledge  of 
created  things  to  a knowledge  of  the  Creator.  The  brilliant 
results  achieved  by  the  ancients,  who  had  not  the  Word,  must 
have  been  inspired  by  a direct  illumination  from  God. 

Part  III  treats  of  the  utility  of  Grammar.  The  necessity  of 
a true  linguistic  science  was  strongly  impressed  upon  him  by  the 
current  translations  of  philosophical  writings,  which  were  very 
bad.  This  it  was  which  moved  him  to  say,  somewhat  impatiently: 

‘If  I had  power  over  the  works  of  Aristotle,  I would  have  them  all  burnt;  for  it  is 
only  a loss  of  time  to  study  in  them,  and  a course  of  error,  and  a multiplication  of  ignor- 
ance beyond  expression.1 

And  again, — 

‘The  common  herd  of  students,  with  their  heads,  have  no  principle  by  which  they 
can  be  excited  to  any  worthy  employment;  and  hence  they  mope  and  make  asses  of 
themselves  over  their  bad  translations,  and  lose  their  time,  and  trouble,  and  money.1 

A good  translator,  he  wisely  insists,  should  know  thoroughly 
(1)  the  language  from  which  he  is  translating,  (2)  the  language 


HERALD  OF  THE  COMING  DAY. 


159 


into  which  lie  is  translating,  and  (3)  the  subject  of  which  the 
book  treats. 

Part  IV  treats  of  the  utility  of  mathematics.  All  science,  of 
things  human  and  divine,  rests  ultimately  on  them.  Here  only 
can  we  entirely  avoid  doubt  and  error,  and  obtain  certainty  and 
truth : 

‘Moreover,  there  have  been  found  famous  men,  as  Robert,  bishop  of  Lincoln,  and 
Brother  Adam  Marshman,  and  many  others  who  by  the  power  of  mathematics  have  been 
able  to  explain  the  causes  of  things;  as  may  be  seen  in  the  writings  of  these  men,  for 
instance,  concerning  the  Rainbow  and  Comets,  and  the  generation  of  heat  and  climates, 
and  the  celestial  bodies.’ 

Mathematics  is  the  ‘alphabet  of  philosophy,’  the  door  and  key  to 
all  sciences: 

‘The  neglect  of  it  for  nearly  thirty  or  forty  years  hath  nearly  destroyed  the  entire 
studies  of  Latin  Christendom.  For  he  who  knows  not  mathematics  cannot  know  any 
other  sciences;  and,  what  is  more,  he  cannot  discover  his  own  ignorance  or  find  its 
proper  remedies.’ 

Part  V treats  of  perspective.  This  is  the  part  on  which  the 
author  most  prided  himself.  He  opens  with  an  able  sketch  of 
psychology,  next  describes  the  anatomy  of  the  eye,  touches  upon 
other  points  of  physiological  optics, — in  general  erroneously,  then 
discusses  very  fully  the  laws  of  reflection  and  refraction,  and  the 
construction  of  mirrors  and  lenses. 

Part  VI,  the  most  remarkable  portion  of  the  Opus  Majus , 
treats  of  experimental  science.  Real  knowledge  consists  in  the 
union  of  exact  conceptions  with  certain  facts.  The  foundation  is 
experience;  but  experience  is  of  two  sorts, — external  and  inter- 
nal. The  first  is  usually  called  experiment,  but  it  can  give  no 
complete  knowledge  even  of  matter,  much  less  of  spirit.  The 
second  is  intuitive  and  divine.  Of  the  supernatural  enlighten- 
ment there  are  seven  grades.  Experimental  science  has  three 
great  Prerogatives  over  all  the  other  sciences:  1.  It  verifies  their 
conclusions;  as  in  the  Rainbow,  whose  colors  are  produced  in  the 
drops  dashed  from  oars  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  spray  thrown  by  a 
mill-wheel,  in  the  dew  of  a summer  morning,  and  in  many  other 
ways.  2.  It  discovers  truths  which  they  could  never  reach. 
Thus  (1)  the  construction  of  an  artificial  sphere  which  shall  move 
with  the  heavens  by  natural  influences.  Or  (2)  the  art  of  pro- 
longing life,  which  experiment  may  teach,  though  medicine  can 
do  little  except  by  regimen.  Of  a preparation  here  mentioned, 


160 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


one  of  the  ingredients  is  the  flesh  of  a dragon,  used  as  food  by 
the  Ethiopians,  we  are  told,  and  prepared  as  follows: 

‘Where  there  are  good  flying  dragons,  by  the  art  which  they  possess,  they  draw  them 
out  of  their  dens,  and  have  bridles  and  saddles  in  readiness,  and  they  ride  upon  them, 
and  make  them  bound  about  in  the  air  in  a violent  manner,  that  the  hardness  and 
toughness  of  the  flesh  may  be  reduced,  as  boars  are  hunted  and  bulls  are  baited  before 
they  are  killed  for  eating.’ 

Or  (3)  the  art  of  making  gold  finer  than  fine  gold,  which  tran- 
scends the  power  of  alchemy.  3.  It  investigates  the  secrets  of 
nature.  Here  we  find  the  suggestion  that  the  fire-works  made  by 
children,  of  saltpetre,  might  lead  to  the  invention  of  a formidable 
weapon  of  war;  that  character  may  be  changed  by  changing  the 
air.  When  Alexander  applied  to  Aristotle  to  know  whether  he 
should  exterminate  certain  tribes  which  he  had  discovered,  as 
being  irreclaimably  barbarous,  the  philosopher  replied:  ‘If  you 
can  alter  their  air,  permit  them  to  live;  if  not,  put  them  to  death.7 

Hence,  it  appears,  the  leading  purpose  of  the  Opus  Mcijus  is 
the  progress  of  knowledge,  and,  to  this  end,  the  reform  of  scien- 
tific method.  A wonderful  work,  if  we  but  consider  the  circum- 
stances of  its  origin,  alike  wonderful  in  plan  and  in  detail, — tho 
encyclopaedia  of  the  classic  century  of  scholasticism. 

Style.  — Plain,  methodical,  clear,  animated,  energetic,  as  of  a 
large,  earnest  soul  profoundly  penetrated  with  the  vastness  of  its 
mission  and  the  brevity  of  its  opportunity. 

Rank. — A giant  among  his  contemporaries,  standing  out  in 
picturesque  and  impressive  contrast.  To  them  he  was  a wonder,, 
and  they  styled  him,  ‘ Doctor  Mirabilis As  a student  at  Paris, 
he  mastered  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew, — an  accomplishment 
which  not  more  than  five  men  in  England  then  possessed.  The 
story  was  current  that  he  had  discovered  a receipt  for  teaching* 
any  one  ‘ in  a very  few  days  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin,  and  Arabic.7 
His  works,  full  of  sound  and  exact  knowledge,  cover  the  whole 
range  of  science  and  philosophy, — Mathematics,  Mechanics, 
Optics,  Astronomy,  Geography,  Chronology,  Chemistry,  Magic, 
Music,  Medicine,  Grammar,  Logic,  Metaphysics,  Ethics,  and  The- 
ology.  He  stood  upon  a lofty  eminence,  and  looked  forward 
three  centuries  when  his  dreams  were  to  take  substantial  form. 
He  gave  a receipt  for  making  gunpowder,  learned  perhaps  from 
the  Arabs, — saltpetre,  charcoal,  and  sulphur.  Afterwards  it  was 


HERALD  OF  THE  COMING  DAY. 


161 


told  how  the  fiend,  to  whom  the  heretical  wizard  sold  himself, 
carried  away  his  victim  in  a whirlwind  of  fire.  He  knew  that 
there  were  different  kinds  of  gas,  or  air  as  he  calls  it,  and  tells 
us  that  one  of  these  puts  out  a flame.  He  invented  the  school- 
boy’s favorite  experiment  of  burning  a candle  under  a bell-glass 
to  prove  that  when  the  air  is  exhausted  the  candle  goes  out.  He 
predicts  that  one  day  ships  will  go  on  the  water  without  sails, 
and  carriages  run  on  the  roads  without  horses,  and  that  travellers 
will  use  flying  machines.  He  constructed  lenses,  burning  glasses, 
and  knew  the  theory  of  the  telescope  if  he  did  not  make  one. 
He  says: 

‘We  can  place  transparent  bodies  (that  is,  glasses)  in  such  a form  and  position 
between  our  eyes  and  other  objects  that  the  rays  shall  be  refracted  and  bent  towards 
any  place  we  please,  so  that  we  shall  see  the  object  near  at  hand,  or  at  a distance,  under 
any  angle  we  please;  and  thus  from  an  incredible  distance  we  may  read  the  smallest 
letter,  and  may  number  the  smallest  particles  of  sand,  by  reason  of  the  greatness  of  the 
angle  under  which  they  appear.’ 

To-day,  however  high  the  philosopher  may  rise  above  the  mul- 
titude, his  elevation  is  seen  to  be  the  reward  of  energy  and  labor. 
But  in  Bacon’s  time,  men’s  thoughts  were  less  clear,  they  could 
eatch  no  glimpse  of  the  intervening  path;  and  when  they  saw 
him  above  them,  but  knew  not  how  he  was  raised  and  supported, 
he  became  to  them  an  object  of  suspicion  and  terror  — a magi- 
cian,— and  feelings  of  envy  jDrobably  induced  the  few  tacitly  to 
sanction  the  opinion  of  the  many.  Thus,  the  Famous  History 
of  Fryer  Bacon , compiled  in  the  sixteenth  century,  represents 
him  before  the  king  and  queen  in  the  act  of  displaying  his  skill 
in  the  black  art.  He  waves  his  wand,  and  entrancing  music  is 
heard;  waves  it  once  more,  and  five  dancers  enter,  who  dance, 
and  vanish  in  the  order  of  their  coming;  waves  it  again,  and  a 
table  laden  with  choicest  viands  is  spread  before  them;  yet  again, 
and  again,  while  the  room  fills  with  richest  perfumes  and  the 
liveries  of  sundry  nations  pass  and  fade.  He  makes  a Brazen 
Head,  by  which,  ‘if  he  could  make  this  head  to  speake  (and  heare 
it  when  it  speakes),  then  might  hee  be  able  to  wall  all  England 
about  with  brasse.’  From  a high  hill,  with  his  ‘mathematical 
glasses’  he  fires  the  public  buildings  of  a besieged  town,  and 
amid  the  uproar  gives  the  signal  for  the  king’s  assault: 

‘ Thus  through  the  art  of  this  learned  man  the  king  got  this  strong  towne,  which  hee 
could  not  doe  with  all  his  men  without  Fryer  Bacon's  helpe.’ 

11 


162 


FORMATIVE  PERIOD  — THE  LITERATURE. 


A keen  and  systematic  thinker  who,  without  being  completely 
dissevered  from  his  national  antecedents  and  surrounding,  seeks 
to  divert  into  other  and  profitable  channels  that  subtlety  of  the 
schoolmen  which  was  growing  forests  of  erudition  without  fruit. 
In  this  he  is  an  accurate  representative  of  the  English  mind  on 
one  of  its  most  striking  sides,  and  the  forerunner  of  his  greater 
namesake,  who  will  exhibit  the  same  fondness  for  experiment, 
the  same  preference  of  inductive  to  abstract  reasoning.  The 
Opus  Majus  is  the  prototype,  in  spirit,  of  Lord  Bacon’s  Novum 
Organum. 

Character. — His  keen  thirst  for  knowledge,  his  patience,  his 
energy,  appear  forcibly  in  words  like  these: 

‘ From  my  youth  up,  I have  labored  at  the  sciences  and  tongues.  I have  sought  the 
friendship  of  all  men  among  the  Latins  who  had  any  reputation  for  knowledge.  I have 
caused  youths  to  be  instructed  in  languages,  geometry,  arithmetic,  the  construction  of 
tables  and  instruments,  and  many  needful  things  besides.1 

Again : 

‘During  the  twenty  years  that  I have  especially  labored  in  the  attainment  of  wisdom, 
abandoning  the  path  of  common  men,  I have  spent  on  these  pursuits  more  than  two 
thousand  pounds,  not  to  mention  the  cost  of  books,  experiments,  instruments,  tables, 
the  acquisition  of  languages,  and  the  like.  Add  to  all  this  the  sacrifices  I have  made  to 
procure  the  friendship  of  the  wise,  and  to  obtain  well  instructed  assistants.1 

Of  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  such  studies  as  he  had  resolved 
to  pursue: 

‘Without  mathematical  instruments  no  science  can  be  mastered,  and  these  instru- 
ments are  not  to  be  found  among  the  Latins,  and  could  not  be  made  for  two  or  three 
hundred  pounds.  Besides,  better  tables  are  indispensably  necessary,  tables  on  which 
the  motions  of  the  heavens  are  certified  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  world 
without  daily  labor;  but  these  tables  are  worth  a king’s  ransom,  and  could  not  be  made 
without  a vast  expense.  I have  often  attempted  the  composition  of  such  tables,  But 
could  not  finish  them  through  failure  of  means  and  the  folly  of  those  whom  I had  to 
employ.1 

As  a teacher,  he  was  devoted  to  those  whom  he  taught.  Of 
the  boy  sent  to  Rome,  he  writes  to  the  pope: 

‘When  he  came  to  me  as  a poor  boy,  I caused  him  to  be  nurtured  and  instructed  for 
the  love  of  God,  especially  since  for  aptitude  and  innocence  I have  never  found  so 
towardly  a youth.  Five  or  six  years  ago  I caused  him  to  be  taught  in  languages,  mathe- 
matics, and  optics,  and  I have  gratuitously  instructed  him  with  my  own  lips  since  the 
time  that  I received  your  mandate.  There  is  no  one  at  Paris  who  knows  so  much  of  the 
root  of  philosophy,  though  he  has  not  produced  the  branches,  flowers,  and  fruit  because 
of  his  youth,  and  because  he  has  had  no  experience  in  teaching.  But  he  has  the  means 
of  surpassing  all  the  Latins  if  he  live  to  grow  old  and  goes  on  as  he  has  begun.1 

Neither  his  confidence  in  the  power  of  the  human  intellect  nor 
his  devotion  to  physical  studies  materialized  his  faith  or  abated 
his  humility.  Wisely  he  says: 


HERALD  OF  THE  COMING  DAY. 


163 


‘Man  is  incapable  of  perfect  wisdom  in  this  life;  it  is  hard  for  him  to  ascend 
towards  perfection,  easy  to  glide  downwards  to  falsehoods  and  vanities:  let  him  then 
not  boast  of  his  wisdom  or  extol  his  knowledge.  What  he  knows  is  little  and  worthless, 
in  respect  of  that  which  he  believes  without  knowing;  and  still  less,  in  respect  of  that 
which  he  is  ignorant  of.  He  is  mad  who  thinks  highly  of  his  wisdom ; he  most  mad,  who 
exhibits  it  as  something  to  be  wondered  at.’ 

Popular  legend,  which  transforms  him  into  a powerful  conjurer, 
always  represents  him  to  have  been  a beneficent  one,  courageous 
and  modest. 

Influence. — Upon  his  own  age  not  great.  The  seed  he  let 
drop,  fell  for  the  most  part  on  a barren  soil.  The  master-concep- 
tion was  itself  drying  up.  Science  was  extinguished  in  idle 
raving  and  inanity.  Bacon  himself  says: 

‘Never  was  there  so  great  an  appearance  of  wisdom  nor  so  much  exercise  of  study 
in  so  many  Faculties,  in  so  many  regions,  as  for  this  last  forty  years.  Doctors  are  dis- 
persed everywhere,  in  every  castle,  in  every  burgh,  and  especially  by  the  students  of  two 
Orders,  which  has  not  happened  except  for  about  forty  years.  And  yet  there  was  never  so 
much  ignorance,  so  much  error.’ 

He  sought,  in  opposition  to  the  spirit  of  his  times,  to  divert  the 
interest  of  his  contemporaries  from  scholastic  subtleties  to  the 
study  of  nature,  and  gained  from  his  own  Order  a prison.  To  us 
he  has  left  a treasure  of  the  most  solid  knowledge  of  his  century, 
of  worthy  and  wise  speculations.  He  is,  moreover,  an  interesting 
and  instructive  example  of  real  greatness  born  before  its  time, 
uttering  its  thoughts  in  Golgotha,  standing  alone  on  heights  un- 
known, and  by  its  very  isolation  forming  no  school  and  leaving 
no  disciples. 


< 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FEATURES. 

If  there  be  any  such  thing  as  a philosophy  of  history,  real  or  possible,  it  is  in  virtue 
of  there  being  certain  progressive  organizing  laws  in  which  the  fretful  lives  of  each 
of  us  are  gathered  into  and  subordinated  in  some  larger  unity,  through  which  age  is 
linked  to  age,  as  we  move  forward,  with  an  horizon  expanding  and  advancing.—  Froude. 

Politics. — The  chief  object  of  the  English  was  to  establish, 
by  force  of  arms,  a continental  empire.  The  greatest  victories 
of  the  Middle  Ages  were  gained  at  this  time  against  great  odds 
by  the  English  armies.  A French  king  was  brought  captive  to 
London,  an  English  one  was  crowned  at  Paris.  But  after  a long 
and  bloody  struggle,  with  many  bitter  regrets  the  contest  was 
abandoned,  and  from  that  hour  no  British  government  has  seri- 
ously and  steadily  pursued  the  dream  of  great  conquests  on  the 
Continent. 

Confined  within  the  limits  of  the  island,  the  warlike  people 
employed  in  civil  strife  those  arms  which  had  carried  terror 
beyond  the  Pyrenees  and  the  Alps.  The  barons,  ceasing  to 
plunder  the  French,  were  by  the  force  of  habit,  eager  to  plunder 
one  another.  Ireland  and  Scotland,  subjugated  by  the  Plan- 
tagenets,  were  impatient  under  the  yoke.  The  former  had  never, 
since  the  days  of  Henry  II,  been  able  to  expel  the  foreign 
invaders.  The  latter,  as  we  have  seen,  vindicated  her  inde- 
pendence under  the  wise  and  valiant  Bruce.  Both  were  far 
behind  England  in  wealth  and  civilization. 

Kings  overstepped  the  constitutional  line.  They  possessed 
many  lucrative  and  formidable  rights  which  enabled  them  to 
punish  any  who  thwarted  them,  and  to  reward  any  who  enjoyed 
their  favor.  Persons  obnoxious  to  the  government  were  fre- 
quently imprisoned  merely  by  the  mandate  of  the  sovereign. 
Taxes  were  imposed  without  the  assent  of  the  estates  of  the 

164 


SOCIAL  CONDITION. 


165 


realm.  Penalties  fixed  by  statute  were  remitted.  But  these 
incursions  were  strenuously  withstood.  Three  ancient  and  potent 
principles  bounded  persistently  the  royal  prerogative  and  pro- 
tected the  liberties  of  the  nation:  1.  The  king  could  not  legis- 
late without  the  consent  of  parliament.  2.  Nor  without  this 
consent  could  he  impose  a tax.  3.  He  was  bound  to  conduct 
the  administration  according  to  law,  and  if  the  law  was  infringed 
his  advisers  were  answerable.  These  fundamental  rules,  by  their 
natural  development,  will  produce  the  order  of  things  under 
which  we  now  live. 

Though  the  struggles  with  regard  to  the  authority  of  the 
Great  Charter  were  over,  and  the  king  was  acknowledged  to 
lie  under  some  obligations;  yet  the  government,  on  the  wrhole, 
was  only  a barbarous  monarchy,  neither  regulated  by  fixed 
maxims  nor  bounded  by  undisputed  rights.  It  was  a composite 
of  opposite  systems,  each  prevailing  in  its  turn  according  to  the 
favor  of  incidents, — royalty,  aristocracy,  priesthood,  and  com- 
monalty. 

The  weakness  of  the  second  Edward  gave  reins  to  that  licen- 
tiousness of  the  grandees  which  the  vigor  of  his  father  had  re- 
pressed; and  the  hopes  that  rose  with  his  accession  were  blasted 
amid  the  traitorous  conspiracies  and  public  disorders  that  accom- 
plished and  attended  his  deposition.  The  reign  of  Edward  III, 
as  it  was  one  of  the  longest  in  the  annals  of  the  nation,  was  also 
one  of  the  most  glorious, — if  by  glory  are  meant  foreign  victo- 
ries, and  comparative  domestic  peace  in  an  age  of  violence  and 
outrage.  Parliament  rose  into  greater  consideration.  The  House 
of  Commons,  naturally  depressed  during  factious  periods  by  the 
greater  power  of  the  crown  and  barons,  began  to  appear  of  some 
weight  in  the  constitution.  The  reign  of  Richard  II  began  in 
tranquillity  and  went  out  in  furious  convulsions, — less  from  neg- 
lect of  national  privileges  than  from  want  of  power  to  overawe 
his  barons. 

Society. — The  amalgamation  of  conquered  and  conquerors 
was  complete.  The  original  ground  of  quarrel  was  lost  to  view. 
The  constitution  of  the  House  of  Commons  promoted  a salutary 
intermixture  of  classes.  Between  the  aristocracy  and  working 
people  was  springing  up  a middle  class,  agricultural  and  com- 
mercial. The  knight  was  the  connecting  link  between  the  baron 


166 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


and  the  shopkeeper.  No  longer  rich  enough  to  assist  at  the 
royal  assemblies,  community  of  interests,  similarity  of  manners, 
nearness  of  condition,  lead  him  to  coalesce  with  the  yeomen,  who 
take  him  for  their  representative,  elect  him.  The  laborious,  cour- 
ageous body  that  supplies  the  energy  of  the  nation,  they  value 
themselves,  equally  with  the  grandee,  as  of  a race  born  to  victory 
and  dominion. 

The  ordinary  dwelling  consisted  of  two  rooms, — the  hall  for 
living  and  miscellaneous  use,  and  the  bower , or  chamber,  for 
sleeping  and  privacy.  The  use  of  chimneys  is  distinctly  men- 
tioned, though  rarely.  The  fire  was  usually  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor;  and  the  smoke,  if  it  pleased,  took  its  course  through  a hole 
in  the  roof.  Hence  Chaucer  of  the  ‘poure  wydow’: 

‘Ful  sooty  was  hir  bour,  and  eek  hire  halle, 

In  which  she  eet  ful  many  a sclender  meel.’ 

The  house,  as  among  the  low  Irish  and  Italians  yet,  was  shared 
with  the  cattle  and  poultry.  Thus  of  the  rooster: 

‘As  Chauntecleer  among  his  wyves  alle 
Sat  on  his  perche,  that  was  in  the  halle.’ 

The  walls,  as  well  as  the  floor,  were  commonly  bare,  without  even 
plaster.  Plates  there  were  none.  Trenchers  — large  flat  cakes  of 
bread  — were  used  instead.  When  the  meat  was  eaten  off  them, 
they  were  given  to  the  poor;  for,  being  saturated  with  the  gravy, 
they  were  too  valuable  to  be  thrown  away.  No  morsel  was  held 
in  dainty  contemplation  at  a fork’s  end.  They  helped  them- 
selves from  the  common  dish,  and  ate  with  their  fingers.  One 
cup  for  drinking  passed  from  guest  to  guest,  and  courtesy  re- 
quired to  wipe  the  mouth  on  the  sleeve  before  drinking,  and  not 
spit  on  the  table.  Pretty  and  agreeable  were  the  accomplish- 
ments of  the  prioress: 

‘At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle; 

She  lette  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 

Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 

Wel  coude  she  carie  a morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 

Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest.’ 

The  tournament,  or  mock-fighting,  was  the  favorite  sport,  the 
highest  enjoyment  and  the  noblest  accomplishment  of  all  ranks. 
In  horse-racing  and  bull-baiting,  high  and  low  took  equal  inter- 
est. The  great  pastime  of  the  lower  orders  was  archery,  which 
they  were  bound  by  royal  proclamation  to  practice  on  Sundays 


SOCIAL  CONDITION. 


167 


and  holidays  after  Divine  service.  Upon  these  occasions,  other 
amusements,  such  as  quoits,  cock-fighting,  foot-ball,  hand-ball, 
were  forbidden. 

High  life  was  a pageant,  a brilliant  and  tumultuous  kind  of 
fete.  Immediately  after  the  Crusades  we  find  nearly  all  Europe 
rushing  with  long-sustained  violence  into  habits  of  luxury.  In 
England,  the  gallantry  of  France,  the  gorgeousness  of  the  East, 
contributed  to  the  movement.  One  of  its  first  signs  was  an 
extraordinary  richness  of  dress.  A parliament  of  Edward  III 
passed  no  less  than  eight  laws  against  French  fashions.  The  king 
and  the  court  set  the  example,  and  their  splendor  was  as  barbar- 
ous as  their  manners.  Richard’s  dress  was  stiff  with  gold  and 
gems.  Cloaks  of  damask  or  satin  trailed  in  the  filth  of  the 
streets,  and  excited  the  rage  of  the  satirists.  Beards  were  long' 
and  curled,  the  hair  was  tied  in  a tail  behind.  Shoes  were  cov- 
ered with  designs  borrowed  from  the  stained  glass  windows  of 
Westminster,  and  the  long  pointed  toe,  reaching  to  the  knee,  was 
there  bound  by  a gold  or  silver  clasp.  Gay  gowns  of  green  were 
common,  and  an  unknown  author  complains  that  the  women 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  the  men.  The  most  striking 
part  of  female  attire  was  a towering  head-dress  like  a mitre,  some 
two  feet  high,  from  which  floated  a rainbow  of  ribbons.  The 
extravagance  was  infectious,  and  the  servant  aped  the  manners 
of  the  aristocrat.  The  chief  clauses  of  a statute  of  1363  are 
intended  to  restrain  ‘the  outrageous  and  excessive  apparel  of 
divers  people  against  their  estate  and  degree.’ 

But  luxurious  indulgence  was  not  confined  to  apparel.  It  is 
displayed  in  the  architecture  of  the  period  — the  decorated  Goth- 
ic,— of  which  pointed  arches  and  profuse  ornament  are  the  dis- 
tinctive features.  ‘Its  whole  aim  was  continually  to  climb  higher, 
to  clothe  the  sacred  edifice  with  a gaudy  bedizenment,  as  if  it  were 
a bride  on  the  wedding  morning.’  At  the  marriage  of  Richard 
Plantagenet,  thirty  thousand  dishes  were  provided.  In  1399,  the 
royal  household  comprised  ten  thousand  persons,  three  hundred 
of  whom  were  in  the  kitchen.  Excess  in  eating  and  drinking 
is  hereditary.  It  is  in  harmony  with  the  genius  of  Germanic 
peoples  to  drink  in  doing  everything. 

They  asked  for  adventure,  adornment,  pleasure.  Edward  III, 
in  an  expedition  against  the  king  of  France,  took  with  him  thirty 


168 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


falconers,  and  alternately  hunted  and  fought.  Knights  carried  a 
plaster  over  one  eye,  pledged  not  to  remove  it  till  they  had  per- 
formed an  exploit  worthy  of  their  mistresses;  for  the  sense  of 
love  — without  depth  and  reality  of  nobleness  — was  not  idle. 
Tournaments,  introduced  by  Edward  I,  were  plentiful,  and  the 
precepts  of  the  love  courts  were  punctiliously  performed.  In  one 
of  the  London  tournaments  of  Edward  III,  sixty  ladies,  seated 
on  palfreys,  led  each  her  knight  by  a golden  chain.  Minstrelsy 
and  tales  of  glee,  the  chase  with  hawks  and  hounds,  brilliant 
charges,  ‘the  love  of  ladies,’  bestowal  of  the  silken  scarf  by  fair 
maiden  upon  brave  victor,  a racket  of  contests,  a confusion  of 
magnificence, — form  the  romance  of  this  regal  and  noble  life, 
the  flower  of  the  Romanesque  civilization. 

But  under  this  bloom  of  chivalry  are  fierce  and  unbridled  in- 
stincts: bleeding  steeds  and  gasping  knights,  plunderings  and 
death-wounds,  — all  the  horrors  expressed  in ‘burned’ — ‘robbed’ 
— ‘ wasted  ’ — ‘ pillaged  ’ — ‘ slain  ’ — ‘ beheaded.’  The  Earl  of  Win- 
chester, at  ninety,  without  trial  or  accusation,  is  condemned  to 
death  by  rebellious  barons,  gibbeted,  his  body  cut  in  pieces  and 
thrown  to  the  dogs,  and  his  head  exposed  on  a pole  to  the  insults 
of  the  populace.  Edward  II  causes  twenty-eight  nobles  to  be 
disembowelled,  and  is  himself  dispatched  by  the  insertion  of  a red- 
hot  iron  into  his  bowels.  Men  openly  associate  themselves,  for 
mutual  defense,  under  the  patronage  of  nobles,  wear  public 
badges  to  distinguish  their  confederacy,  meet  in  troops  like 
armies,  and  support  each  other  in  every  iniquity.  On  the  coat  of 
arms  of  one  of  these  marauders  was  the  inscription:  ‘I  am  Cap- 
tain Warner,  commander  of  a troop  of  robbers,  an  enemy  to  God, 
without  pity  and  without  mercy.’  Two  cardinals  themselves,  the 
pope’s  legates,  are  thus  despoiled  of  their  goods  and  equipage; 
the  poet  Chaucer  is  twice  robbed;  and  the  king  of  Cyprus  on  a 
visit  to  England  is  stripped,  with  his  whole  retinue.  Highway 
robbery  is  a national  crime;  and  capital  punishment,  though 
frequent,  cannot  restrain  a bold  and  licentious  crew,  made  tolera- 
bly secure  by  the  general  want  of  communication  and  the  advan- 
tage of  extensive  forests.  The  outlaws  of  Sherwood  — allowed  to 
redeem  a just  ignominy  by  a few  acts  of  generosity  — are  the 
heroes  of  vulgar  applause.  What  shall  be  said  of  the  female 
character  or  of  the  tyranny  of  husbands,  when  we  find  it  to  be  no 


SOCIAL  CONDITION. 


169 

uncommon  circumstance  that  women  are  strangled  by  masked 
assassins,  or,  walking  by  the  river-side,  are  plunged  into  it? 
Ran  a popular  proverb:  ‘It  is  nothing, — only  a woman  being- 
drowned.’ 

A social  chasm  severed  the  rich  from  the  poor.  At  first,  as 
we  have  seen,  the  tiller  of  the  soil  was  his  lord’s  property.  Cus- 
tom gradually  secured  to  each  serf  his  little  hut  and  garden-plot, 
and  limited  the  amount  of  service  he  had  to  render.  This  done  — 
personally  or  by  deputy, — his  remaining  hours  were  free.  If  by 
additional  labor  he  acquired  cattle,  he  was  permitted  to  pasture 
them  upon  the  waste  lands  of  his  lord’s  estate.  If  unable  to  find 
employment  in  tillage,  he  was  allowed  to  pay  a money-rent. 
Manumissions  were  sold  to  refill  the  royal  and  baronial  purse 
drained  by  incessant  campaigns.  Labor  — no  longer  bound  to 
one  spot  or  one  master  — was  free  to  hire  itself  where  and  to 
whom  it  would.  A statute  of  the  period  complains  that  — 

‘ Villains  and  tenants  of  lands  in  villainage  withdrew  their  customs  and  services  from 
their  lords,  having  attached  themselves  to  other  persons  who  maintained  and  abetted 
them ; and  who,  under  color  of  exemplifications  from  Domesday  of  the  manors  and  villas 
where  they  dwelt,  claimed  to  be  quit  of  all  manner  of  services,  either  of  their  body  or  of 
their  lands,  and  would  suffer  no  distress  or  other  course  of  justice  to  be  taken  against 
them;  the  villains  aiding  their  maintainers  by  threatening  the  officers  of  their  lords  with 
peril  of  life  and  limb,  as  well  by  open  assemblies  as  by  confederacies  to  support  each 
other.’ 

Now  for  the  first  time  is  revealed  the  strife  between  capital  and 
labor;  and  the  struggle  is  now  hushed,  then  intensified  by  that 
destroying  blast  which  rising  in  the  East,  and  sweeping  across 
the  shore  of  the  Mediterranean  and  Baltic,  swooped  at  the  close 
of  1348  upon  Britain. 

Harvests  rotted,  lands  were  left  untilled,  cattle  strayed  through 
the  fields  and  corn,  or  poisoned  the  air  with  their  decaying  car- 
casses, grass  grew  in  towns,  villages  were  left  without  a single 
inhabitant,  half  the  population  perished.  Individuals  thought 
only  of  their  own  safety,  the  rich  were  rendered  more  oppressive, 
the  licentious  more  abandoned;  the  laborer  and  artisan  — masters 
at  last  of  the  labor  market  — demanded  exorbitant  wages,  and 
turned  easily  into  the  ‘sturdy  beggar’  or  the  bandit  of  the  woods. 
Ran  a royal  ordinance: 

‘Every  man  or  woman  of  whatsoever  condition,  free  or  bond,  able  in  body,  and 
within  the  age  of  three-score  years,  . . . and  not  having  of  his  own  whereof  he  may 
live,  nor  land  of  his  own  about  the  tillage  of  which  he  may  occupy  himself,  and  not 


170 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


serving  any  other,  shall  he  bound  to  serve  the  employer  who  shall  require  him  to  do  so, 
and  shall  take  only  the  wages  which  were  accustomed  to  be  taken  in  the  neighborhood 
where  he  is  bound  to  serve.’ 

Not  only  was  the  price  of  labor  fixed  by  act  of  parliament,  but 
the  labor  class  was  once  more  tied  to  the  soil.  The  laborer 
was  forbidden  to  quit  his  own  parish,  and  a refusal  to  obey  was 
punished  by  imprisonment.  The  process  of  emancipation  was 
checked.  The  ingenuity  of  lawyers  was  shamelessly  exercised  in 
cancelling  on  grounds  of  informality  manumissions  and  exemp- 
tions, to  bring  back  into  bondage  the  villains  and  serfs  who  had 
delighted  in  their  freedom.  Discontent  smouldered  and  spread. 
A ‘ mad  priest  ’ gave  terrible  utterance  to  the  tyranny  of  prop- 
erty and  the  defiance  of  socialism.  Cried  the  preacher: 

1 Good  people,  things  will  never  go  well  in  England  so  long  as  goods  be  not  in  com- 
mon, and  so  long  as  there  be  villains  and  gentlemen.  By  what  right  are  they  whom  we 
call  lords  greater  folk  than  we?  Why  do  they  hold  us  in  serfage?  They  are  clothed  in 
velvet,  and  warm  in  their  furs,  while  we  are  covered  with  rags.  They  have  wine  and 
spices  and  fair  bread,  and  we  oat-cake  and  straw,  and  water  to  drink.  They  have  leisure 
and  fine  houses;  we  have  pain  and  labor,  the  rain  and  the  wind  in  the  fields.  And  yet 
it  is  of  us  and  our  toil  that  these  men  hold  their  state.  When  Adam  delved  and  Eve 
span,  where  was  then  the  gentleman?  ’ 

The  insolence  of  the  tax-gatherers  fanned  the  scattered  sparks 
of  sedition  into  flame  from  sea  to  sea.  Quaint  rhymes  served  as 
call  to  arms;  as, — 

‘John  Ball  greeteth  you  all,  and  doth  for  to  understand  he  hath  rung  your  bell. 
Now  right  and  might,  will  and  skill,  God  speed  every  dele.’ 

And, — 

‘Falseness  and  guile  have  reigned  too  long,  and  truth  hath  been  set  under  a lock, 
and  falseness  and  guile  reigneth  in  every  stock.’ 

The  revolt,  indeed,  was  outwardly  suppressed,  and  happily  so; 
but  Tyler  the  smith  and  Ball  the  priest  had  sounded  the  knell 
of  feudalism  and  the  declaration  of  the  equal  rights  of  men. 
‘We  will  that  you  free  us  forever,’  shouted  the  insurgents  to 
the  youthful  Richard. 

The  struggle  went  on.  The  terror  of  the  land-owners  ex- 
pressed itself  in  legislation,  to  which  the  stubbornness  of  resist- 
ance shows  the  temper  of  the  people.  Says  a statute  of  1385: 

‘ Divers  villains  and  neifs,  as  well  of  great  lords  as  of  other  people,  spiritual  and 
temporal,  do  flee  unto  cities,  towns,  and  places  enfranchised,  as  the  city  of  London, 
and  feign  divers  suits  against  their  lords,  to  the  intent  to  make  them  free  by  answer 
of  their  lords.’ 

Serfdom,  by  the  operation  of  moral  causes,  is  dying  out.  The 
word  ‘villen’  gives  place  to  the  word  ‘servant.’  In  1388,  wages 


THE  RELIGIOUS  TONE. 


171 


are  again  regulated,  because  ‘servant  and  laborers  will  not  serve 
and  labor  without  outrageous  and  excessive  hire.’  In  the  same 
year  it  is  harshly  enacted  that  no  servant  or  laborer  can  depart, 
even  at  the  expiration  of  his  service,  from  the  hundred  in  which 
he  lives,  without  permission  under  the  king’s  seal;  nor  may  any 
who  have  been  bred  to  husbandry  till  twelve  years  old  exercise 
any  other  calling.  Later,  the  Commons  petition  that  villains 
may  not  put  their  children  to  school  in  order  to  advance  them  by 
ihe  Church,  and  complain  that  villains  fly  to  cities  and  boroughs, 
whence  their  masters  cannot  recover  them,  and,  if  they  attempt 
it,  are  hindered  by  the  people. 

Closely  connected  with  the  progress  of  constitutional  govern- 
ment was  the  social  movement  that  was  fast  changing  the  face  of 
the  country.  The  force  of  the  feudal  system  is  dissolved,  and  in 
every  attempt  to  maintain  it  we  see  only  the  shadow  of  a power 
once  supreme,  retreating  and  diminishing  before  an  expanding 
and  omnipotent  reality, — the  doctrine  that  men  are  equal  before 
God. 

Religion. — To  the  social  revolution  was  added  the  fresh  im- 
pulse of  a religious  one.  The  Church  was  in  its  noon  of  splen- 
dor, but  the  blaze  was  only  a veil  over  the  central  darkness. 
Petrarch  says  the  Papacy  sat  ‘as  a blight  over  peoples,  and 
nations,  and  tongues,  toying  and  confident  in  the  abundance  of 
earthly  riches,  and  careless  of  the  eternal.’  Of  Rome  itself  he 
says: 

Once  Rome!  now,  false  and  guilty  Babylon! 

Hive  of  deceits!  Terrible  prison 

Where  the  good  doth  die,  the  bad  is  fed  and  fattened! 

Hell  of  the  living! 

Sad  world  that  doth  endure  it!  Cast  her  out!’ 

Foreign  priests  were  still  intruded  into  English  livings  and  Eng- 
lish sees,  direct  taxes  were  imposed  on  the  clergy,  first  fruits 
were  claimed  from  all  ecclesiastical  preferments.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  century,  the  papal  revenue  was  twelve  times  greater 
than  the  civil;  at  the  end  of  the  century,  the  Commons  declared 
that  the  taxes  paid  to  the  Church  were  five  times  greater  than 
the  taxes  paid  to  the  crown. 

While  the  exactions  of  Rome  severed  the  priesthood,  the 
greed  and  scandal  of  both  provoked  the  sleepless  hatred  of  the 
people.  Half  the  soil  was  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy,  and  with 


172 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


all  their  wealth  they  bore  as  little  as  they  could  of  the  burdens 
of  the  State.  Their  courts  mildly  noticed  the  crimes  and  vices  of 
their  order.  They  worried  the  community  by  their  insufferable 
claim  to  control  wills,  contracts,  and  divorces;  by  their  endless 
dues  and  fees;  by  their  countless  legal  citations  of  citizens,  to 
extort  costs  and  fines.  They  were  rent  by  their  own  dissensions. 
Each  order  of  friars  hated  the  other;  the  monks  hated  them  and 
the  parish  priests,  or  secular  clergy,  who  were  far  better;  and  the 
last  looked  upon  both  as  their  natural  enemies.  The  bishops, 
again,  were  estranged  from  the  mass  of  the  clergy  by  the  shame- 
ful inequality  between  their  respective  revenues,  and  by  their 
strife  for  political  emoluments.  There  was  a universal  clamor 
against  the  mendicant  orders,  who,  though  rich,  pretended  to  be 
poor;  and,  impure  of  life,  pretended  to  be  good. 

There  is  a general  desire  to  shake  off  the  papal  bondage,  and 
an  irrepressible  cry  for  truth  and  purity  in  life  and  in  the  Church. 
In  the  reign  of  Edward  III,  every  person  is  outlawed  who  carries 
any  cause  by  appeal  to  the  court  of  Rome.  In  the  committee  of 
eighteen  to  whom  Richard’s  last  parliament  delegated  their  whole 
power,  there  is  not  the  name  of  an  ecclesiastic  to  be  found.  The 
barons  are  jealous  of  the  prelates.  The  courtly  Chaucer  laughs 
at  the  jingling  bells  of  the  hunting  abbots.  Piers  the  Plowman, 
a man  of  the  multitude  and  a victim,  lifts  his  indignant  voice. 
Robin  Hood,  the  ballad  hero,  orders  his  folk  to  ‘ spare  the  yeo- 
men, laborers,  even  knights,  if  they  are  good  fellows,’  but  never 
to  pardon  abbots  or  bishops.  Wycliffe  protests  against  the  car- 
dinal beliefs  of  Catholicism,  organizes  the  growing  discontent, 
justifies  and  supports  it  with  principles,  tenets  and  reasonings. 
His  disciples — ‘the  Simple  Priests,’  or  ‘Lollards,’  whose  homely 
sermons  and  long  russet  dress  move  the  ridicule  of  the  regulars  — 
diffuse  his  doctrines,  which  rapidly  infect  all  classes,  the  baronage 
of  the  city,  the  peasantry  of  the  country-side,  even  the  monas- 
ticism  of  the  cell.  Women,  as  well  as  men,  become  preachers  of 
the  new  sect,  whose  numbers  increase  till  it  seems  to  the  panic- 
stricken  churchmen  that  every  third  man  in  the  street  is  a Lol- 
lard— a heretic.  A more  wholesome  conception  of  existence  is 
forming,  from  which  will  be  finally  educed  — in  the  yet  far-off 
national  outbreak  of  the  Reformation  — a better  civilization, 
founded  on  the  respect  for  liberty  and  justice. 


STATE  OF  LEARNING. 


173 


Yet  we  will  not  forget  that  in  the  two  great  deliverances  from 
the  tyranny  of  nation  over  nation  and  from  the  property  of  man 
in  man,  the  chief  agent  was  the  Church  of  Rome.  Distinctions 
of  caste  were  to  her  peculiarly  odious,  because  incompatible  with 
other  distinctions  essential  to  her  system.  How  great  a part  she 
had  in  the  abolition  of  slavery  we  have  elsewhere  seen.  Tenderly 
treating  her  own  bondmen  (whom  she  declined  to  enfranchise), 
we  have  seen  her  regularly  adjuring  the  dying  slaveholder,  as  he 
asked  for  the  last  sacraments,  to  emancipate  his  brethren  for 
whom  Christ  had  died.  Corrupt  as  she  was,  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  had  she  been  overthrown  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
vacancy  would  have  been  occupied  by  a system  more  corrupt 
still.  Her  leading-strings,  which  will  impede  the  full-grown  man, 
are  necessary  to  preserve  and  uphold  the  infant.  She  will  be 
allowed  a hundred  and  fifty  years  more  in  which  to  fill  the  meas- 
ure of  her  offences,  that  she  may  fall  only  when  time  has  laid  bare 
the  root  of  her  degeneracy,  when  faith  and  manners,  ideas  and 
morals,  may  change  together  and  subsist  in  harmony. 

Learning1. — In  an  age  when  every  one,  rich  or  poor,  lives  with 
his  hand  on  his  sword,  it  is  not  strange  that  general  education 
should  have  been  neglected.  War  and  woodcraft  were  the  pride 
of  the  great.  Not  one  in  five  hundred  could  have  stumbled  through 
a psalm.  If  they  read,  they  spelled  the  small  words,  and  skipped 
the  large  ones.  Information  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  not 
from  eye  to  eye.  Men  were  auditors,  not  readers.  The  populace 
had  poets  for  themselves,  whose  looser  carols  were  the  joy  of  the 
streets  or  the  fields, — songs  that  perished  on  the  lips  of  the 
singers.  Across  the  gulf  of  mystery,  the  opening  line  of  some 
fugitive  rehearsal  falls  upon  the  ear  like  the  echo  of  a vanished 
world, — 

‘ Sitteth  all  stille,  and  harkeneth  to  me ! 1 

The  clergy  alone  were  learned,  and  they  only  relatively.  The 
pulpit  was  the  chief  means  of  instruction.  In  the  little  village 
church, — endeared  to  the  peasant  by  the  most  touching  incidents 
of  his  life,  or  in  vast  and  spired  cathedral,  amid  smoking  censers, 
the  blaze  of  lamps,  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells,  the  play  of  jewelled 
vessels,  and  gorgeous  dresses  of  violet,  green,  and  gold, — listened 
the  silent  and  unquestioning  people. 

Books  — still  in  manuscripts,  copied  in  the  Scriptorium  by  the 


174 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


patient  monks  — were  few  and  costly.  They  had  not  always 
titles  to  denote  their  subjects,  and  are  described  by  their  outsides 
— often  shining  in  extreme  splendor.  Froissart,  the  French  his- 
torian, on  a last  visit  to  England  in  1396,  presented  to  Richard  a 
book  beautifully  illuminated,  engrossed  with  his  own  hand,  bound 
in  crimson  velvet,  and  embellished  with  silver  bosses,  clasps,  and 
golden  roses.  As  much  as  forty  pounds  was  paid  for  a copy  of 
the  Bible.  Shelves  were  not  required.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
century,  the  Oxford  library  consisted  of  a few  tracts  kept  in 
chests.  A private  collection  — scant  and  phenomenal  — consisted 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  romances  of  chivalry,  so  long  the 
favorite  literature  of  the  noble,  the  dame,  and  the  lounger  of  the 
baronial  castle.  Some  monasteries  had  not  more  than  twenty 
volumes.  Latin  versions  of  the  Scriptures, — Greek  or  Hebrew 
never;  a commentator,  a father,  a schoolman;  the  mediagval 
Christian  poets  who  composed  in  Latin;  a romance,  an  accidental 
classic,  chronicles  and  legends, — such  are  the  usual  contents  of  a 
surviving  catalogue  — a sad  contraction  of  human  knowledge. 

The  glimmerings  of  the  revival  of  the  ancient  classics,  incip- 
ient in  the  twelfth  century,  fading  in  the  thirteenth  owing  to  the 
prevalence  of  scholasticism,  are  somewhat  more  distinct  in  the 
fourteenth.  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  were  the  first  to  lead  the  way 
in  disinterring  them  from  the  dungeon-darkness  wThere  they  safely 
slept,  undisturbed  by  the  monks  who  were  ignorant  of  their  treas- 
ures or  regarded  them  as  the  works  of  idolaters.  The  light  of 
learning,  having  first  made  its  entrance  into  France,  now,  in 
natural  course  of  progress,  found  its  way  into  England, — dimmed 
by  distance  from  its  Italian  focus.  The  debt  of  England  to  Italy 
in  the  matter  of  our  literature  begins  with  Chaucer,  but  a hun- 
dred years  will  pass  before  the  imagination  of  the  North  is  in- 
flamed by  the  sacred  fires  kindled  at  Florence  and  at  Rome. 

The  common  herd  of  students  (through  the  medium  of  Latin 
translations)  looked  upon  Aristotle  as  their  infallible  oracle  and 
guide,  though  stripping  him  of  all  those  excellences  that  really 
belonged  to  him,  and  incapable  of  entering  into  the  true  spirit 
of  his  writings.  Oxford  — and  Cambridge  as  well  — had  received 
many  noble  foundations.  She  was  the  school  of  the  island,  the 
fount  of  the  new  heresies,  the  link  of  England  to  the  learned  of 
Europe.  To  her,  during  the  English  wars,  was  transferred  the 


THE  LANGUAGE. 


175 


intellectual  supremacy  of  Paris.  But  of  the  vast  multitude  once 
composing  its  learned  mob,  there  remained  in  1367  less  than  a 
fifth.  The  master  idea,  running  to  excess,  was  languishing  by 
expenditure  of  force. 

Language. — For  the  scholastic  uses  of  the  learned,  and  for 
■ecclesiastical  purposes,  Latin  was  still  a living  though  a dying 
tongue.  For  the  last  fifty  years  of  the  century,  French  was 
to  all  classes  of  Englishmen  a foreign  language,  and,  even  as 
taught,  was  a mere  dialect  of  the  Parisian.  Chaucer,  in  the 
Testament  of  Love  (attributed)  says  : 

‘ Certes  there  hen  some  that  speke  thyr  poysy  mater  in  Frenche,  of  whyche  speche 
the  Frenchemen  have  as  good  a fantasye  as  we  have  in  hearing  of  French  mennes 
Englyshe.’ 

And  adds: 

‘ Let,  then,  clerkes  endyten  in  Latyn,  for  they  have  the  propertye  in  science  and 
the  knowinge  in  that  facultye,  and  lette  Frenchmen  in  theyr  Frenche  also  endyte  theyr 
queynt  termes,  for  it  is  kyndly  to  theyr  mouthes;  and  let  us  shewe  our  fantasyes  in 
suche  wordes  as  we  learneden  of  our  dames  tonge.’ 

The  Prioress  in  the  Tales,  though  she  speaks  French  neatly, 
speaks  it  only  — 

‘After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 

For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe.'’  [ her 

But  the  old  Teutonic,  assuming  a new  organization,  recovered 
its  ascendancy  by  the  same  circumstances  which  depressed  its 
rival.  Formal  note  of  its  triumph  is  found  in  a statute  of  1362, 
which  orders  English  to  be  used  in  courts  of  law,  because  ‘the 
French  tongue  is  much  unknown.’  Later  it  is  observed  of  the 
grammar  schools  that  ‘children  leaveth  Frensche  and  construeth 
and  lerneth  in  Englische.’  Chaucer,  writing  for  the  instruction 
of  his  little  son,  uses  the  vernacular,  because  ‘curious  enditying 
and  harde  sentences  are  full  hevy  at  once  for  such  a childe  to 
lerne,’  and,  like  a true  patriot,  bids  the  boy  think  of  it  as  the 
King's  English. 

The  first  revolution  which  English  underwent,  consisted,  as 
formerly  explained,  in  the  conversion  of  it  from  an  inflectional 
and  synthetic  into  a nan-inflected  and  analytic  speech.  Its  state 
in  this  particular  towards  the  close  of  the  century  may  be  not 
^unfairly  represented  by  the  Lord’s  Prayer: 

‘ Our  FadiT  that  art  in  hevenys ; 

Halewid  he  thi  name. 

Tin  kyngdom  come  to, 


176 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Be  thi  wil  done  in  erthe  as  in  hevene. 

Give  to  us  this  day  oure  breed  oure  othir  substaunce. 

And  forgive  to  us  our  dettis  as  we  forgiven  to  our  dettouris: 

And  lede  us  not  into  temptacioun: 

But  delyvere  us  from  yvel.  Amen.’ 

The  second,  which  it  was  now  undergoing,  and  which  its  adop- 
tion by  the  court  and  nobility  made  possible,  was  its  intermix- 
ture with  foreign  elements.  Translations  and  travel  greatly 
enriched  it  by  importations  from  the  South.  The  new  power 
of  thinking,  and  the  new  words  to  embody  its  conceptions,  came 
together,  twin-born.  The  English  language  thus  enlarging  its 
domain  by  conquest  and  assimilation,  yet  retaining  its  essentially 
Germanic  character,  displays  the  same  powers  of  acquisition  as 
have  distinguished  the  race. 

Against  this  alien  admixture  the  critics  protested.  ‘I  seke,’ 
says  one,  ‘no  strange  Inglyss,  bot  lightest  (easiest)  and  com- 
munest.’  Thus  early  was  our  purity  imperilled  ! As  if  new 
modes  of  expression  were  not  the  creatures  of  new  modifications 
of  thought.  A national  idiom  is  in  perpetual  movement,  resem- 
bling, as  it  struggles  into  perfect  existence,  the  lion  of  the  bard 
of  Paradise , — 

‘ pawing  to  get  free 

His  hinder  parts' 

What  survives?  Trevisa,  translating  a Latin  treatise  in  1387,. 
tells  us  he  avoids  ‘the  old  and  ancient  English.’  In  the  next 
century,  his  printer  will  rewrite  this  translation,  ‘to  change  the 
rude  and  old  English;  that  is,  to  wit,  certain  words  which  in 
these  days  be  neither  used  nor  understood’!  Little  did  Caxton 
imagine  that  he  himself  would  be  to  us  what  Trevisa  was  to 
him, — an  archaism,  covered  with  the  rust  of  time.  The  cry  of 
of  the  purist  is  the  pang  of  parturition.  Styles  are  like  shades 
melting  into  each  other,  passing  with  the  generations  that  cast 
them.  It  is  with  words  as  with  empires.  We  each  in  our  day 
see  only  the  beginnings  of  things. 

Poetry. — Two  notions  rule  the  age:  the  one  tending  to  a 
renovation  of  the  heart;  the  other,  to  a prodigal  satisfaction  of 
the  senses;  the  one  disposing  to  righteousness,  the  other  to  ex- 
citement; the  one  planting  the  ideal  amidst  forms  of  force  and 
joy;  the  other  amidst  sentiments  of  truth,  law,  duty;  the  one 
producing  finical  verses  and  diverting  stories,  the  other  the  indig- 


POETRY  — PIERS  PLOWMAN. 


177 


nant  protest  against  hypocrisy  and  the  impassioned  prayer  for 
salvation.  For  the  omnipotent  idea  of  justice  will  overflow,  and 
conscience,  like  other  things,  will  have  its  poem. 

Tn  the  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman , by  William  Langland 
(1362),  the  sombre  genius  of  the  Saxon  reappears,  with  its  tragic 
pictures  and  emotions.  The  author — ‘Long  Will,’  they  call 
him, — is  a secular  priest,  who  once  earned  a miserable  livelihood 
by  singing  at  the  funerals  of  the  rich.  Silent,  moody,  and  de- 
fiant, his  world  is  the  world  of  the  poor.  Far  from  sin  and 
suffering  his  fancy  flies  to  a May  morning  on  the  Malvern  Hills, 
where  he  falls  asleep  and  has  a wonderful  dream: 


‘I  was  weary  for- wandered,  [with  wandering 
And  went  me  to  rest 
Under  a brood  bank, 

By  a burn's  side; 

And  as  I lay  and  leaned, 

And  looked  on  the  waters, 

I slombered  into  a sleeping, 

It  swayed  so  mury. 

Then  gan  I meten 
A marvellous  sweven, 

That  I was  in  a wilderness. 

Wist  I never  where; 

And,  as  I beheld  into  the  east 
On  high  to  the  sun, 

I seigh  a tower  on  a toft 
Frieliche  ymaked, 

A deep  dale  beneath, 

A donjon  therein, 

With  deep  ditches  and  darke, 

And  dreadful  of  sight. 

A fair  field  full  of  folk 


[broad 

[stream's 


[pleasant 

[meet 

[dream 


[saw,  hill 
[richly 


Found  I there  between 
Of  all  manner  of  men, 

The  mean  and  the  rich, 

Werking  and  wandering 
As  the  world  asketh. 

Some  putten  hem  to  the  plough  [them 
Playden  full  seld, 

In  setting  and  sowing 
Swonkcn  full  hard,  [labored 

And  wonnen  that  wasters  [produced 
With  gluttony  destroyeth. 

And  some  putten  hem  to'  pride, 
Apparelled  him  thereafter, 

In  countenance  of  clothing 
Comen  deguised,  [came 

In  prayers  and  penances 
Putten  hem  many, 

All  for  the  love  of  our  Lord 
Liveden  full  strait, 

In  hope  to  have  after 
Heaven-riche  bliss. 


The  canvas  of  the  dreamer  is  crowded  and  astir  with  life,  from 
the  king  to  the  bondman.  Here  are  the  minstrels,  who  ‘geten 
gold  with  their  glee’;  jesters  and  jugglers,  ‘Judas’  children’; 
petitioners  and  beggars,  who  flatter  ‘ for  hir  food  ’ and  fight  ‘ at 
the  ale’;  pilgrims,  who  seek  the  — 

* saintes  at  Rome, 

They  wenten  forth  in  hir  way 
With  many  wise  tales. 

And  hadden  leave  to  lien  [live 

All  hir  life  after;  ’ 

the  court-haunting  bishop,  pardoners,  ‘parting  the  silver’  with 
the  parish  priest;  friars, — 

‘All  the  four  orders, 

Preaching  the  people 
For  profit  of  hem  selve:’ 


12 


178 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


lawyers,  whom  the  people  hate, — of  whom  the  insurrectionists 
will  shout,  ‘ Not  till  all  these  are  killed  will  the  land  enjoy  its 


old  freedom  again,’ — whom  Burns 
ing  in  the  kennels  of  justice,’ — 

‘ Yet  hoved  ther  an  hundred  \ivaited 
In  howves  of  selk,  [ hoods 

Sergeantz  it  bi-semed 
That  serveden  at  the  barre, 

Pleteden  for  penyes 
And  poundes  the  lawe; 


will  style  ‘hell-hounds  prey- 

And  noght  for  love  of  our  Lord 
Unlose  hire  lippes  ones. 

Thow  myghtest  bettre  meete  myst 
On  Malverne  hilles, 

Than  gete  a mom  of  hire  mouth, 

Til  moneie  be  shewed.’ 


A heavenly  messenger  — Holy  Church  — appears  to  the  dreamer* 
and  shows  him  in  this  mortal  assemblage  a jewelled  lady: 

‘ Hire  robe  was  ful  riche.  Hire  array  me  ravysshed, 

Of  reed  scarlet  engreyned,  Swich  richesse  saugh  I nevere; 

With  ribanes  of  reed  gold  I hadde  wonder  what  she  was, 

And  of  riche  stones.  And  whos  wif  she  were.’ 


This  lady  is  Mede  (Lucre),  to  whom  high  and  low,  lay  and  clergy, 
alike  offer  homage.  She  contracts  a legal  marriage  with  False- 
hood, and  the  king  would  marry  her  to  Conscience,  but  the 
latter  replies: 

‘Crist  it  me  forbede! 

Er  I wedde  swiche  a wif, 

Wo  me  betide! 

For  she  is  frele  of  hire  feith, 

Fikel  of  her  speche, 

And  maketh  men  mysdo 
Many  score  tymes.’ 


Reason  preaches  repentance  to  offenders.  Many  are  converted, 
among  whom  are  Proud  Heart,  who  vows  to  wear  hair-cloth ; 
Envy,  lean,  cowering,  biting  his  lips,  and  wearing  the  sleeves 
of  a friar’s  frock;  and  Covetousness,  bony,  beetle-browed,  blear- 
eyed.  The  repentant  hearers  set  out  on  a pilgrimage  to  Truth. 
They  meet  a far-travelling  pilgrim,  who  proves  a blind  guide, 
for  of  such  a saint  he  has  never  heard.  The  wanderers  put  them- 
selves under  the  direction  of  a carter,  Piers  the  Plowman.  His 
is  a .gospel  of  works,  and  he  puts  them  to  toil  in  his  vineyard. 
But  they  become  seditious,  and  are  at  last  reduced  by  the  aid 
of  Hunger,  who  subdues  Waste,  leader  of  the  revolt,  and  hum- 
bles his  followers.  ‘Pardons,’  or  ‘indulgences,’  are  satirized,  and 
with  the  anxiety  of  Luther  to  know  what  is  righteousness  the 
poet  goes  in  search  of  Do-well.  He  asks  each  one  to  explain 
where  he  may  be  found,  and  finds  him  by  the  description  of 
Wit,  in  the  Castle  of  the  Flesh  built  by  Kind  (Nature),  who 
resides  there  with  his  bride  Anima  (Soul).  Do-better  is  her 


POETRY  — PIERS  PLOWMAN. 


179 


handmaid,  and  Do-best  her  spiritual  guide.  Thence,  for  further 
instruction  he  is  taken  to  dine  with  Clergy,  and  while  they 
refresh  themselves  with  psalms  and  texts,  which  are  the  bill 
of  fare,  Clergy  gives  his  pupil  a dissertation,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  refers  to  one  Piers  Plowman  who  had  made  light  of 
all  knowledge  but  love,  and  says  that  Do-well  and  Do-better 
are  finders  of  Do-best,  who  saves  men’s  souls.  The  pilgrim  ex- 
claims,— 

‘This  is  a long  lesson, 

And  litel  am  I the  wiser,’ 

and  receives  a reproof  for  his  indocile  temper.  Vain  is  the  wis- 
dom of  man.  Do-well,  Do-better,  and  Do-best  are  at  last  identi- 
fied with  the  Saviour,  who  is  Love.  Of  low  estate,  come  to  direct 
the  erring  and  redeem  the  lost,  he  appears  in  the  garb  of  Piers 
the  Plowman, — type  of  the  poor  and  simple.  The  Immortal 
dies,  descends  into  Hell,  rescues  the  patriarchs  and  prophets, 
triumphs  over  Death  and  the  Devil.  The  righteous  life  is  found, 
and  the  dreamer  wakes  in  a transport,  with  the  Easter  chimes 
pealing  in  his  ears.  Alas,  only  in  a dream  is  mortal  victory 
complete.  Over  the  beatific  vision  roll  the  mists  of  earth  again, 
and  Antichrist  — the  Man  of  Sin  — with  raised  banner  appears. 
Bells  are  rung,  and  the  monks  in  solemn  procession  go  out  to 
receive  with  congratulations  their  lord  and  father.  With  seven 
great  giants  — the  seven  Deadly  Sins1 — he  besieges  Conscience 
Idleness  leads  the  assault,  and  brings  with  him  more  than  a 
thousand  prelates.  Nature  sends  up  a host  of  plagues  and  dis- 
eases to  punish  the  sacrilegious  show: 

‘Kynde  Conscience  tho  herde, — and  cam  oat  of  the  planetes, 

And  sente  forth  his  forreyours  — feveres  and  flaxes, 

Coaghes  and  cardiacles, — crampes  and  tootli-aques, 

Reumes  and  radegnndes, — and  roynons  scabbes. 

Biles  and  bocches, — and  brennynge  aques, 

Frenesies  and  foul  yveles,— forageres  of  kynde.  . . . 

There  was  “Harrow!  and  Help! — Here  cometh  Kynde! 

With  Deeth  that  is  dredful  — to  undo  us  alle ! ” 

The  lord  that  lyved  after  lust  — tho  aloud  cryde.  . . . 

Deeth  cam  dryvynge  after, — and  alle  to  dust  passhed 
Kynges  and  knyghtes, — kaysers  and  popes,  . . . 

Manye  a lovely  lady  — and  lemmans  of  knyghtes,  [lovers 

Swowned  and  swelted  for  sorwe  of  hise  dyntes.’ 

1 Pride , Luxury,  Envy,  Wrath,  a friar,  whose  aunt  is  a nun,  and  who  is  both  cook 
and  gardener  to  a convent;  Avarice,  who  lies,  cheats,  lends  money  upon  usury,  and 
who,  not  understanding  the  French  word  restitution,  thinks  it  another  term  for  steal- 
ing; Gluttony , who,  on  his  way  to  church,  is  tempted  into  a London  ale-house;  Sloth,  a 
priest,  who  knows  rhymes  about  Robin  Hood  better  than  his  prayers,  and  who  can  find 
a hare  in  a field  more  readily  than  he  can  read  the  lives  of  the  saints. 


180 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Contrition  is  implored  for  aid,  but  slumbers;  and  Conscience, 
hard  pressed  by  Pride  and  Sloth,  rouses  himself  with  a final  effort, 
and  seizing  his  staff  resumes  his  doubtful  quest,  praying  for  luck 
and  health  ‘ till  he  have  Piers  the  Plowman  ’ — till  he  find  the 
Christ;  no  clear  outlook,  no  sure  hope;  like  the  Wandering  Jew, 
bowed  beneath  the  burden  of  the  curse,  weary  with  unrelieved 
toil,  worn  with  ceaseless  trudging. 

This  serious  poem,  w’hich  makes  Scripture  and  deed  the  test  of 
creed  — all  outward  observances  but  hollow  shows  — prepares  the 
soil  for  the  reception  of  that  seed  which  Wycliffe  and  his  asso- 
ciates are  sowing.  The  imitations  — the  Plowman's  Greed , by  a 
nameless  author,  and  the  Plowman's  Tale , attributed  to  Chaucer 
— bear  witness  to  its  popularity  and  fame.  Its  wide  circulation 
among  the  commonalty  of  the  realm  is  chiefly  due  to  its  moral 
and  social  bearings.  Like  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  it  ex- 
presses the  popular  sentiment  on  the  subjects  it  discusses, — the 
vices  of  Church,  State,  and  Society.  A spiritual  picture  which 
brings  into  distinct  consciousness  what  many  feel  and  but  dimly 
apprehend, — the  solitary  advocate  of  the  children  of  want  and 
oppression. 

A part  of  its  interest,  at  least  for  posterity,  is  derived  from  its 
antiquated  Saxon  and  its  rustic  pith.  Without  artifice  of  connec- 
tion or  involution  of  plot,  it  is  an  impulsive  voice  from  the  wilder- 
ness, in  the  language  of  the  people;  and,  as  such,  returns  to  or 
continues  the  old  alliterative  metre  and  unrhymed  verse  — the 
recurrence  at  certain  regular  intervals  of  like  beginnings,  without, 
as  Milton  contemptuously  calls  it,  the  jingling  sound  of  like  end- 
ings. Thus: 

‘In  a somer  seson  — whan  soft  was  the  sonne, 

I sAope  me  in  s/troudes  — as  I a she pe  were, 

In  /iabite  as  an  ^eremite  — un/ioly  of  workes, 

Went  wyde  in  this  world  — wondres  to  here.’ 

The  fashionable  machinery  of  talking  abstractions  gives  evidence 
of  French  influence.  The  satirist,  like  Bunyan,  veils  his  head  in 
allegory.  Perhaps  the  ideal  company  who  flit  along  the  dreamy 
scenes  of  his  wild  invention,  have  some  distant  relationship  to  the 
shadowy  pilgrimage  of  that  ‘Immortal  Dreamer’  to  the  ‘Celestial 
City.’ 

The  second  main  stream  of  the  poetical  literature  of  the  period  is 
story-telling.  Robert  Manning’  garnishes  with  rhymes  a history 


POETRY  — TIIE  NEW  TASTE. 


181 


of  England  beginning  with  the  immemorial  Brutus,  and  calls  it  a 
poem.  Of  a style  easier  than  that  of  Robert  of  Gloucester  and 
of  diction  more  advanced,  it  discourses  without  developing,  and 
sees  moving  spectacles  without  emotion: 


Lordynges  that  be  now  here, 

If  ye  wille  listene  and  lere 
All  the  story  of  lnglande, 

Als  Robert  Mannyng  wryten  it  fand, 

And  on  Inglysch  has  it  schewed, 

Not  for  the  lered  but  for  the  lewed; 

For  tho  that  on  this  land  wonn 
That  the  Latin  ne  the  Frankys  conn 
For  to  hauf  solace  and  gamen, 

In  felauschip  when  tha  sitt  samen; 

And  it  is  wisdom  for  to  wytten 

The  state  of  the  Land,  and  hef  it  wryten, 

What  manere  of  folk  first  it  wan, 

And  of  what  kynde  it  first  began. 

And  gude  it  is  for  many  thynges 
For  to  here  the  dedis  of  kynges, 

Whilk  were  foies,  and  whilk  were  wyse 
And  whilk  of  tham  couth  most  quantyse; 
And  whilk  did  wrong,  and  whilk  ryght, 
And  whilk  mayntened  pes  and  fight.' 


[ learn 

[a, 7,  written 

[ laity 
[those,  dwell 
[know 

[together 

[know 


[hear 
[which 
[knew,  artfulness 

[peace 


So  forth  and  so  forth.  Loquacious,  clear,  and  insipid,  we  imag- 
ine, as  its  French  original. 

But  reverie  and  fantasy  are  needed  to  satisfy  the  pleasant 
indolence  of  the  chivalric  world  and  the  courts  that  shine  upon 
the  heights.  The  tales  that  sufficed  to  allure  the  attention  of  a 
ruder  ancestry,  now  demand  more  volume,  more  variety,  more 
color;  and  all  that  history  and  imagination  have  gathered  in  the 
East,  in  France,  in  Wales,  in  Provence,  in  Italy,  wrought  and  re- 
wrought by  the  minstrelsy  of  three  centuries,  heroics  of  the 
North  that  magnify  the  valor  and  daring  of  the  cavalier,  lyrics  of 
the  South  that  dwell  on  the  devotion  of  the  knight  to  his  lady- 
love,— serve  as  the  stuff  for  the  looms  of  the  mighty  weavers  of 
verse.  Before  the  frivolous  unreality  of  the  new  chivalry,  songs 
of  martial  achievement  predominated;  but  the  intellectual  palate 
of  the  gentry  now  prefers  the  later  poetry  of  sensuous  enjoy- 
ment,— the  trouvere,  with  its  amours  and  mysticism;  or  the 
troubadour,  with  its  romantic  follies.  The  passion  of  war  has 
degenerated  into  a pageant,  and  Romance , from  the  light  fa- 
bliaux to  the  entangling  fiction  of  many  thousand  lines,  tells  of 
little  but  the  ecstasies  of  love.  Love  is  the  essential  theme, — 
love  in  its  first  emotions,  love  happy,  jealous;  the  lover  walking, 


182 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  —FEATURES. 


sitting,  sleeping,  sick,  despairing,  dead.  In  France  they  have 
Floral  Games  where  the  assembled  poets  are  housed  in  artificial 
arbors  dressed  with  flowers,  and  a violet  of  gold  is  awarded  the 
best  poem.  The  love-courts  discuss  — and  decide  affirmatively  — 
whether  each  one  who  loves  grows  pale  at  the  sight  of  her  whom 
he  loves;  whether  each  action  of  the  lover  ends  in  the  thought  of 
her  whom  he  loves;  whether  love  can  refuse  anything  to  love.  A 
company  of  enthusiasts*  love-penitents,  to  prove  the  strength  of 
their  passion,  dress  in  summer  in  furs  and  heavy  garments,  and 
in  winter  in  light  gauze.  When  Froissart  presents  to  Richard 
his  book  bound  in  crimson  velvet,  guarded  by  clasps  of  silver, 
and  studded  with  golden  roses, — 

‘Than  the  kyng  demanded  me  whereof  it  treated,  and  I shewed  hym  how  it  treated, 
maters  of  loue ; wherof  the  kynge  was  gladde.’ 

While  rowing  on  the  Thames,  Gower  (1325-1408)  meets  the 
royal  barge,  and  is  called  to  the  king’s  side.  ‘ Book  some  new 
thing,’  says  Richard,  ‘in  the  way  you  are  used,  into  which  book  I 
myself  may  often  look  ’;  and  the  request  is  the  origin  of  Confessio 
Amantis  — the  Confession  of  a Lover.  It  is  a dialogue  between 
an  unhappy  lover  and  his  confessor,  the  object  of  which  is  to 
explain  and  classify  the  impediments  of  love.  Through  thirty 
thousand  weary  lines,  the  lover,  like  a good  Catholic,  states  his 
distress,  and  is  edified,  if  not  comforted,  by  expositions  of  her- 
metic science  and  Aristotelian  philosophy,  discourses  on  politics, 
litanies  of  ancient  and  modern  legends,  gleaned  from  the  com- 
pilers for  the  morality  they  furnish.  Thus  a serpent,  Aspidis,. 
bears  in  his  head  the  precious  stone  called  the  carbuncle,  which 
enchanters  strive  to  win  from  him  by  lulling  him  asleep  with 
magic  songs.  The  wise  reptile,  as  soon  as  the  charmer  approach- 
es, presses  one  ear  flat  upon  the  ground,  and  covers  the  other 
with  his  tail.  Ergo,  let  us  obstinately  resist  all  temptations  that 
assail  us  through  the  avenues  of  the  bodily  organs.  Even  as 
Ulysses  stopped  his  companions’  ears  with  wax  and  lashed  him- 
self to  the  ship’s  mast,  to  escape  the  enticement  of  the  Sirens’ 
song.  The  confession  terminates  with  some  parting  injunctions 
of  the  priest,  the  bitter  judgment  of  Venus  that  he  should  re- 
member his  old  age  and  leave  off  such  fooleries,  his  cure  from 
the  wound  of  Cupid’s  dart,  and  his  absolution.  He  is  dismissed 
with  advice  from  the  goddess  to  go  ‘where  moral  virtue  dwelleth.’ 


POETRY  — GOWER. 


183 


To  the  last,  Gower  is  learned,  dignified,  didactic.  He  would  be 
nothing,  if  he  were  not  moral.  His  principal  merit  lies  in  the 
sententious  passages  which  are  here  and  there  interspersed,  and 
the  narratives  culled  with  dull  prolixity  from  legendary  lore,  some 
of  which  — as  the  Trumpet  of  Death  — deserve  notice  for  their 
striking  tone  of  reflection,  and  others  for  the  charm  of  their 
details.  Thus,  it  was  a law  in  Hungary,  that  when  a man  was 
condemned  to  die,  the  sentence  should  be  announced  to  him  by 
the  blast  of  a brazen  trumpet  before  his  house.  At  a magnificent 
court-festival,  the  monarch  was  plunged  in  deep  melancholy,  and 
his  brother  anxiously  inquired  the  reason.  No  reply  was  made, 
but  at  break  of  morn  the  fatal  trumpet  sounded  at  the  brother’s 
gate.  The  doomed  man  came  to  the  palace  weeping  and  despair- 
ing. Then  the  king  said  solemnly,  that  if  such  grief  were  caused 
by  the  death  of  the  body,  how  much  profounder  must  be  the 
sorrow  awakened  by  the  thought  which  afflicted  him  as  he  sat 
among  his  guests, — the  thought  of  that  eternal  death  of  the 
spirit  which  Heaven  has  ordained  as  the  wages  of  sin. 

The  tale  of  Florent  is  in  Gower’s  happiest  manner,  and  re- 
veals, in  the  desert  of  platitudes,  some  of  the  brilliancy  and 
grace  of  older  models.  A knight  riding  through  a narrow  pass 
in  search  of  adventures,  is  attacked,  taken,  and  led  to  a castle. 
There,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  he  is  required  to  state  — 

‘What  alle  women  most  desire.' 

That  he  may  have  time  for  reflection  and  consideration,  he  is 
granted  a leave  of  absence,  on  condition  that  at  the  expiration 
of  his  term  he  shall  return  with  his  answer.  He  tells  all  what 
has  befallen  him,  and  asks  the  opinion  of  the  wisest,  but  — 

‘ Such  a thing  they  cannot  find 
By  constellation  ne  kind, — 1 

that  is,  neither  by  the  stars  nor  by  the  laws  of  nature.  Our 
hero  — still  pondering  what  to  say — sets  out  on  his  return.  His 
troubled  meditations  are  at  length  interrupted  by  the  discovery 
of  an  old  woman  sitting  under  a large  tree, — 

‘ That  for  to  speak  of  flesh  and  bone 
So  foul  yet  saw  he  never  none.’ 

He  fain  would  pass  quickly  on,  but  she  calls  him  bv  name,  and 
warns  him  that  he  is  riding  to  his  death,  adding,  however,  that 
she  can  save  him.  He  begs  her  advice,  and  she  asks,  4 What 


184 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD — FEATURES. 


wilt  thou  give  me ? ’ ‘Anything  you  may  ask.’  ‘I  want  nothing- 
more,  therefore  pledge  me’ — 

‘ “ That  you  will  be  my  housebande.” 

“Nay,”  said  Florent,  “that  may  not  be.” 

“ Ride  thenne  forth  thy  way,”  quod  she.’ 

In  vain  he  offers  lands,  parks,  houses, — she  must  have  a hus- 
band. He  wisely  concludes  that  it  is  — 

‘ Better  to  take  her  to  his  wife, 

Or  elles  for  to  lose  his  life.’ 

He  also  reflects  that  she  probably  will  not  live  very  long,  and 
resolves  to  put  her  meanwhile  — 

‘Where  that  no  man  her  shoulde  know 
Till  she  with  death  were  overthrow.’ 

Having  signified  his  assent,  she  tells  him,  that  when  he  reaches 
his  destination,  he  is  to  reply  — 

‘That  allc  women  lievest  would 
Be  sovereign  of  mannes  love ; ’ 

for  as  sovereign , she  will  have  all  her  will , which  is  the  beatitude 
of  her  desire.  With  this  answer,  she  says  he  shall  save  himself, 
and  he  rides  sadly  on,  for  he  is  under  oath  to  return  for  his 
bride.  At  the  castle,  in  the  presence  of  the  summoned  inmates, 
he  names  several  things  of  his  own  invention,  but  none  will  do; 
and  finally  he  gives  the  answer  the  old  woman  directed,  which 
is  declared  to  be  the  true  one.  Retracing  his  steps,  a free  but 
wretched  man,  he  finds  the  old  woman  in  the  identical  spot, — 

‘ The  loathliest  wight 
That  ever  man  cast  on  his  eye, 

Her  nose  has,  her  browes  high. 

Her  eyen  small,  and  depe-set, 

Her  chekes  ben  with  teres  wet, 

And  rivelin  as  an  empty  skin, 

Hangende  down  unto  her  chin, 

Her  lippes  shrunken  ben  for  age; 

There  was  no  grace  in  her  visage.’ 

She  insists,  however,  upon  the  agreement,  and,  sick  at  heart, 
almost  preferring  death, — 

‘In  ragges  as  she  was  to-tore 
He  set  her  on  his  horse  before.’ 

riding  through  all  the  lanes  and  by-ways  that  no  one  may  see 
him.  At  home  he  explains  that  he  is  obliged  — 

‘ This  beste  wedde  to  his  wife, 

For  elles  he  had  lost  his  life.’ 

Maids  of  honor  are  sent  in,  who  renew  her  attire,  all  except  her 


[low,  Hat 

[shrivelled 

[hanging 


POETRY  — GOWER. 


185 


matted  and  unsightly  hair,  which  she  will  not  allow  them  to 
touch. 

‘But  when  she  was  fully  array’d. 

And  her  attire  was  all  assay’d. 

Then  was  she  fouler  unto  see.’ 

Poor  Florent  takes  her  less  for  better  than  for  worse,  and,  the 
ceremony  over,  covers  his  head  in  grief: 

‘His  body  mighte  well  be  there; 

But  as  of  thought  and  of  memoire 
His  liearte  was  in  Purgatoire.' 

She  would  ingratiate  herself  in  his  affections,  and  approaching 
him  takes  him  softly  by  the  hand.  He  turns  suddenly  and  be- 
holds a vision  of  sweet  smiles  and  beautiful  eyes.  He  would 
come  nearer,  is  stopped,  and  told  — 

‘ that  for  to  win  or  lose 
He  mote  one  of  two  thinges  choose, 

Wher  he  will  have  her  such  o’  night  [ whether 

Or  clles  upon  daye's  light; 

For  he  shall  not  have  bothe  two.’ 

At  loss,  conscious  only  of  his  idolatry,  he  at  last  exclaims, — 

“‘1  n’ot  what  answer  I shall  give. 

But  ever,  while  that  I may  live, 

I will  that  ye  be  my  mistress, 

For  I can  naught  myselve  guess 
Which  is  the  best  unto  my  choice. 

Thus  grant  I you  my  whole  voice. 

Choose  for  us  bothen,  I you  pray, 

And,  what  as  ever  that  ye  say, 

Right  as  ye  wille,  so  will  I.”  1 

This  is  the  point  — the  surrender  of  his  will  to  hers.  This  is 
‘What  alle  women  most  desire’ — to  be  sovereign  of  man’s  love 
— in  short  to  have  their  own  way.  Foretaste  of  Paradise  for  the 
happy  groom,  whose  cup  is  now  filled  to  overflowing: 

‘“My  lord,”  she  saide,  “grand-merci  [ many  thanks 

For  of  this  word  that  ye  now  sayn 
That  ye  have  made  me  sovereign, 

My  destiny  is  overpassed; 

That  n’er  hereafter  shall  be  lass’d  [ lessened 

My  beauty,  which  that  I now  have, 

Till  I betake  unto  my  grave. 

Both  night  and  day  as  I am  now, 

I shall  always  be  such  to  you. 

Thus,  I am  yours  for  evermo.”  ’ 

As  an  artist,  partly  the  reformer  and  partly  the  story-teller, 
Gower  bridges  the  space  between  Langland  and  Chaucer.  His 
English,  too,  in  vocabulary  and  structure  is  later  than  the  first 


186- 


initiative  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


and  earlier  than  the  second.  His  metre  is  the  octosyllabic,  of 
four  iambics.  His  rhythm  is  more  smooth  than  melodious.  He 
is  touched  only  by  French  influence.  There  are  extant  about  fifty 
French  amatory  sonnets  composed  by  him  in  imitation  of  Proven- 
gal  models.  On  the  whole,  like  the  dozen  of  translators  who 
copy,  compile,  abridge,  he  constructs  an  encyclopaedia,  a text- 
book, in  rhymed  memoranda;  but  if  excellence  be  comparative 
and  all  criticism  relative  to  the  age,  we  may  hail  this  grave  father 
of  our  poesy,  whose  verses,  if  destitute  of  creative  touches,  are 
stamped  with  the  force  of  ethical  reasoning.  Amid  triflers,  he  is 
earnest,  with  a deep-rooted  idea  that  the  minstrel  should  be  a 
preacher.  In  his  political  admonitions,  in  his  satire  on  the  re- 
laxed morals  of  the  Pulpit,  the  Bench,  the  Bar,  the  Throne,  and 
the  Court,  he  sounds  the  deep  tones  of  the  patriot.  He  says: 

‘I  do  not  affect  to  touch  the  stars,  or  write  the  wonders  of  the  poles;  but  rather,  with 
the  common  human  voice  that  is  lamenting  in  this  land,  I write  the  ills  I see.  In  the 
voice  of  my  crying  there  will  be  nothing  doubtful,  for  every  man’s  knowledge  will  be  its 
best  interpreter.’ 

Again : 

‘Give  me  that  there  shall  be  less  vice,  and  more  virtue  for  my  speaking.’ 

Only  one  of  his  three  great  works  has  been  opened  to  the 
world,  but  the  marble  perpetuates  what  the  press  does  not.  In 
the  Southwark  Church  of  St.  Saviour,  his  image  lies  extended  on 
the  tomb,  with  folded  hands,  in  damask  habit  flowing  to  his  feet; 
his  head  supported  by  three  sculptured  volumes 1 and  decked  with 
a garland  of  roses,  while  three  visionary  virgins,  Charity,  Mercy, 
and  Pity,  solicit  the  prayer  of  the  passer-by  for  the  soul  of  the 
dreamless  sleeper. 

The  fashions  of  man  have  their  date  and  their  termination. 
The  fourteenth  century  is  memorable  as  the  era  in  which  the 
romance-poetry  of  France,  displaced  in  form,  declines  in  sub- 
stance. Even  comedy  cannot  thrive  on  trifles.  The  literature 
that  has  not  truth  or  seriousness  must  die.  Life  does  not  move 
through  a perpetual  May-day,  nor  is  it  invigorated  in  gorgeous 
idleness.  Nourished  on  this  poetry,  another  taste  is  springing 
up,  which  is  to  seek  its  subjects,  not  in  France,  but  in  the 
chaster  Roman  and  Grecian  lore.  A new  spirit  pierces  through, — 
no  longer  the  childish  imitation  of  chivalrous  life,  but  the  crav- 

1 Speculi/m  Meditantis  (Mirror  of  One  Meditating ),  in  French;  Vox  Clamantis  ( Voice 
of  One  Crying ),  in  Latin;  Confessio  Amantis , in  English;— equally  graced  with  Latin 
titles,  though  in  three  languages. 


PROSE  — HISTORY. 


187 


ing  for  deep  truths.  English  poetry,  as  distinguished  on  the 
one  hand  from  the  pedantry  and  barrenness  of  the  romancers, 
and  on  the  other  from  the  impulsive  cries  of  Beowulf \ begins 
with  Chaucer,  the  first  skilled  and  conscious  workman;  who, 
ceasing  to  repeat,  observes;  whose  characters,  no  longer  a phan- 
tom procession,  are  living  and  distinct  persons, — individualized 
and  typical;  and  who,  seeking  material  in  the  common  forest 
of  the  middle  ages,  replants  it  in  his  own  soil,  to  send  out  new 
shoots  and  enduring  bloom. 

Prose. — Our  early  literature,  as  formerly  observed,  is  almost 
exclusively  one  of  poetry.  Records,  chronicles,  books  of  instruc- 
tion, of  science,  there  are;  but  of  prose,  as  the  embodiment  of 
high  art,  there  is  absolutely  none.  As  we  have  cathedrals  while 
the  builders  live  in  hovels,  so,  under  the  impulse  of  the  imagina- 
tive sentiment,  we  have  poetry  before  we  have  prose,  which 
passes  into  pure  literature  only  when  the  views  of  men  have 
settled  down  to  sober  truth,  and  art  is  so  diffused  as  to  give 
grace  and  expression  to  things  familiar  and  homely. 

Divines  and  philosophers,  mathematicians  and  scientists,  write 
in  Latin.  The  prose  works  in  English  have  an  archaic  and  moral 
rather  than  an  artistic  interest.  Mandeville  and  Wycliffe — - 
the  one  in  his  travels,  the  other  in  his  translations  of  the  Bible  — 
are,  in  the  mixed  vernacular,  the  first  reapers  on  the  margin  of 
the  great  future  of  English  prose. 

History. — In  this  mixed  state  of  glory  clouded  with  bar- 
barism, there  is,  there  can  be,  no  annalist  deserving  the  name  of 
historian.  The  chroniclers  have  the  usual  aptitude  for  credence, 
unastonished  at  astonishing  events,  credulous  and  happy  by  con- 
stitution and  contagion.  They  begin,  as  usual,  ab  initio , with 
the  Conquest,  and  reach  home,  across  chasms  supplied  by  an 
ever-ready  fancy.  The  narrative  grows  like  a rolling  snowball, 
gathering  whatever  lies  in  its  path,  fact  or  legend,  appropriate 
or  inappropriate.  The  readers  or  hearers  are  as  well  prepared 
to  believe  as  the  writers  are  prompt  to  collate.  A hundred  years 
hence  the  first  peer1  of  the  realm  will  be  proud  of  deriving  his 
pedigree  from  a fabulous  knight  in  a romantic  genealogy. 

Of  plumed  knights  and  penitential  saints,  of  warring  kings 


iJuke  of  Buckingham. 


188 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD — FEATURES. 


and  feasting  nobles,  of  furious  and  raving  figures,  we  have  a 
plenty;  but  of  history  that  will  trace  the  ideal  tendencies  of 
the  age,  that  will  exhibit  the  world  of  ideas,  the  life  of  the 
people  as  a drama  in  which  good  and  evil  fight  their  everlasting 
battle, — of  history  in  which  calmness  of  insight  exists  with  in- 
tensity of  feeling,  there  is  yet  no  prophecy. 

Philosophy. — This  consists,  for  the  most  part,  in  ringing 
changes  on  the  syllogism, — 

‘Barbara,  Celarent,  Darii,  Ferio, 

Cesare,  Camestres,  Festino,  Baroko,’  etc.; 

circulating  in  endless  vortices-;  creating,  swallowing, — itself. 
Inductions,  corollaries,  dilemmas,  logical  diagrams,  cast  wonder- 
ful horoscopes,  but  end  — where  perhaps  all  metaphysical  specu- 
lation ends,  as  to  the  stolen  jewel  of  our  search  — in  nothingness. 

The  old  dispute,  long  dormant,  was  now  revived  with  a white- 
heat  of  disputation.  The  Realists  maintained  that  universal 
ideas  or  essences  belonged  to  the  class  of  real  things , either 
eternally  impressed  upon  matter  or  eternally  existent  in  the 
Divine  Mind  as  the  models  of  created  objects;  while  the  Nomi- 
nalists held  that  these  pretended  universals  had  neither  form  nor 
essence,  but  were  merely  modes  of  conception,  existing  solely  in 
and  for  the  mind, — only  individuals  are  real. 

Of  Nominalism,  Occam1  was  now  the  eminent  spokesman. 
The  universal,  he  argues,  exists  in  the  mind,  not  substantially, 
but  as  a representation;  while  outwardly  it  is  only  a word,  or  in 
general  a sign,  of  whatever  kind,  representing  conventionally 
several  objects.  Only  an  a posteriori  proof  of  the  being  of  God, 
and  that  not  a rigorous  one,  is  possible.  As  for  the  rest,  the 
‘articles  of  faith’  have  not  even  the  advantage  of  probability  for 
the  wise,  and  especially  for  those  who  trust  to  the  natural  reason. 
Here  only  the  authority  of  the  Bible  and  Christian  tradition 
should  be  accepted.  Theological  doctrines  are  not  demonstrable, 
yet  the  will  to  believe  the  indemonstrable  is  meritorious.  Thus 
reason  and  faith  are  antagonized,  the  critical  method  rises  to  an 
independent  rank,  and,  with  the  cooperation  of  other  influences 
tending  in  the  same  direction,  the  way  is  prepared  for  an  induc- 
tive investigation  of  external  nature  and  psychical  phenomena. 

1\  Franciscan  of  the  severe  order,  and  a pupil  of  Duns  Scotus;  born  in  the  county 
of  Surrey,  died  April  7,  1347. 


PROSE  — PHILOSOPHY  A HD  SCIENCE. 


189' 


The  bearings  of  the  discussion  upon  vital  theology  explain 
the  furious  energy  of  the  disputants.  If',  for  example,  the  uni- 
versal is  a mere  symbol,  Christ  — the  Infinite  — is  not  really 
present  in  the  Eucharist.  If  Realism  is  false,  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity,  according  to  which  the  one  divine  essence  is  entirely 
present  in  each  of  the  three  divine  persons,  is  false.  Distinctions 
of  less  moment  might  in  the  Ages  of  Faith  shatter  an  empire. 
Hence  it  was  that  the  University  of  Paris,  by  a public  edict 
(1339)  solemnly  condemned  and  prohibited  the  philosophy  of 
Occam,  as  prejudicial  to  the  interests  of  the  Church.  His  party 
in  consequence,  flourished  the  more.  What  is  more  natural  than 
to  love  and  pursue  the  forbidden  ? 

Science. — When,  as  here,  the  measure  of  probability  is  es- 
sentially theological,  if  scientific  theories  are  discussed,  they  will 
be  colored  with  religious  thought.  The  scientist, — 

‘Transported 

And  rapt  in  secret  studies,’ — 

is  imagined  to  know  more  than  the  human  faculties  can  acquire. 
The  wise  are  magicians;  and  the  enlightened,  heretics. 

Astrology  — fortune-telling  by  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  and 
the  influence  of  the  stars  — was  the  favorite  superstition  of  the 
East  and  West.  Great  circumspection  was  necessary;  neglect 
of  it  was  fatal.  In  1327,  Asculanus,  having  performed  some  ex- 
periments that  seemed  miraculous  to  the  vulgar,  and  having  also 
offended  many  by  some  predictions  said  to  have  been  fulfilled, 
was  supposed  to  deal  with  infernal  spirits,  and  was  committed  to 
the  flames  by  the  inquisitors  of  Florence. 

Alchemy  was  generally  confined  to  the  mystery  which  all 
sought  to  penetrate, — the  transmutation  of  metals  into  gold. 
Edward  III,  not  less  credulous  than  his  grandfather,  issued  an 
order  in  the  following  terms: 

‘Know  all  men  that  we  have  been  assured  that  John  of  Rous  and  Master  William  of 
Dalby  know  howto  make  silver  by  the  art  of  alchemy;  that  they  have  made  it  in  former 
times,  and  still  continue  to  make  it;  and,  considering  that  these  men,  by  their  art,  and 
by  making  the  precious  metal,  may  be  profitable  to  us  and  to  our  kingdom,  we  have  com- 
manded our  well  beloved  Thomas  Cary  to  apprehend  the  aforesaid  John  and  William, 
wherever  they  can  be  found,  within  liberties  or  without,  and  bring  them  to  us,  together 
with  all  the  instruments  of  their  art,  under  safe  and  sure  custody.' 

The  art  of  medicine  was  still  in  the  greater  part  a compound 
of  superstition  and  quackery.  Relics,  shrines,  and  miracle-cures 
were  a source  of  boundless  profit  to  ecclesiastics.  It  forms  an 


190 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — F EATURES. 


epoch,  that  in  this  century  Mundinus  publicly  dissected  two 
human  bodies  in  Bologna.  A French  surgeon,  writing  in  1363, 
says : 

‘The  practitioners  in  surgery  are  divided  into  five  sects.  The  first  follow  Roger  and 
Roland,  and  the  four  masters,  and  apply  poultices  to  all  wounds  and  abscesses;  the 
second  follow  Brunus  and  Theodoric,  and  in  the  same  cases  use  wine  only;  the  third 
follow  Saliceto  and  Lanfranc,  and  treat  wounds  with  ointments  and  soft  plasters;  the 
fourth  are  chiefly  Germans,  who  attend  the  armies,  and  promiscuously  use  charms, 
potions,  oil,  and  wool ; the  fifth  are  old  women  and  ignorant  people,  who  have  recourse 
to  the  saints  in  all  cases.’ 

One  of  Gower’s  most  graceful  passages  is  that  in  which  he  pict- 
ures Medea  going  forth  at  midnight  to  gather  herbs  for  the  incan- 
tations of  her  witchcraft: 

‘ Thus  it  befell  upon  a night, 

Whann  there  was  naught  but  sterre  light, 

She  was  vanished  right  as  hir  list, 

That  no  wight  but  hirselfe  wist: 

And  that  was  at  midnight  tide; 

The  world  was  still  on  every  side. 

With  open  head,  and  foote  all  bare 
His  heare  to  spread;  she  gan  to  fare: 

Upon  the  clothes  gyrte  she  was, 

And  speecheles,  upon  the  gras 
She  glode  forth,  as  an  adder  doth.’ 

Theology. — The  central  doctrine  of  the  mediaeval  Church 
was  the  carnal  nature  of  the  sacraments  — Transubstcintiation. 1 
Long  ago,  in  the  ninth  century,  it  had  been  denied  that  the  bread 
and  wine  of  the  Lord’s  Supper  were  transmuted  into  the  body  and 
blood  of  Christ.  Two  centuries  later,  the  dispute  was  famous; 
and  Berenger,  who  had  the  temerity  to  teach  that  they  were  but 
symbols,  was  terrified  into  publicly  signing  a confession  of  faith, 
which,  among  other  tenets,  declared: 

‘ The  bread  and  wine,  after  consecration,  are  not  only  sacrament,  but  also  the  real 
body  and  blood  of  Jesus  Christ;  and  this  body  and  blood  are  handled  by  the  priest  and 
consumed  by  the  faithful,  not  merely  in  a sacramental  sense,  but  in  reality  and  truth,  as 
other  sensible  objects  are.’ 

The  controversy  continued.  Bread  was  deified,  carried  in  solemn 
pomp  through  the  public  streets  to  be  administered  to  the  sick  or 
dying.  By  his  exclusive  right  to  the  performance  of  the  miracle 
in  the  mass,  the  humblest  priest  was  exalted  above  princes. 
Against  this  cardinal  belief  of  the  early  Church,  as  of  the  Roman 
Catholics  now, — that  the  material  flesh  and  blood  of  the  Saviour 
could  be  eaten  as  ordinary  meat, — Wycliffe  issued  a formal  pro- 

1 A word  introduced  and  established  by  Innocent  III,  at  the  fourth  Lateran  Council, 
1215. 


PROSE  — THEOLOGY  AND  ETHICS. 


191 


test  (1381),  and  with  that  memorable  denial  began  the  move- 
ment of  revolt. 

Under  every  creed,  however  monstrous,  beneath  every  formula, 
however  obsolete,  is  a philosophy.  Wherever  the  importance  of 
conduct  has  been  felt,  one  question  has  been  of  chief  concern, — 
‘Who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this  death/'1  Jew  and 
Persian  had  witnessed,  with  idolatrous  Greece,  that  the  especial 
strength  of  evil  lay  in  matter.  How  came  this  substance  to  be 
tainted  and  infirm?  Plato  had  left  the  question  doubtful.  The 
Jew  found  his  solution  in  the  fatal  apple.  The  earth  was  a garden 
of  delight,  over  whose  hospitable  surface  no  beast  or  bird  of  prey 
broke  the  changeless  peace:  but  Adam,  the  first-born,  sinned  — 
no  matter  how,  and  all  this  fair  scene  dissolved  in  carnage. 
Creation  groaned  in  ruins,  and  the  human  frame  — hitherto  pure 
as  immortal  seraph  — was  infected  with  disease  and  decay,  unruly 
appetites,  jealousies,  rapines,  and  murders.  Thenceforward  every 
material  organization  contained  in  itself  the  elements  of  destruc- 
tion. How  shall  the  soul  be  saved,  unless  the  body  — its  compan- 
ion and  antagonist,  which  bears  it  down  — is  purified?  The  old 
substance  must  be  transfigured — leavened  by  the  flesh  of  the 
Redeemer,  which  is  free  from  the  limitations  of  sin.  So  will  the 
new  creature,  thus  fed  and  sustained,  go  on  from  strength  to 
strength,  and  at  last,  dropping  in  the  gate  of  the  grave  the 
‘muddy  vesture’  which  is  death’s,  stand  robed  in  glorified  form, 
like  refined  gold.  Such,  we  doubt  not,  is  the  root-idea  of  the 
Eucharist.  It  was  the  conscious  idea,  not  in  metaphor,  but  in 
fact.  As  a symbolism,  beautiful  still.  The  weary  fasts  of  the 
saints  may  be  their  glory  or  their  reproach;  but  the  same  desire 
— however  expressed  — that  set  St.  Simeon  on  his  pillar,  tunes 
the  heart  and  forms  the  mind  of  the  noblest  of  mankind, — simili- 
tude with  the  divine  through  victory,  however  wrought,  over  the 
fleshly  lusts. 

Ethics. — About  this  time,  more  writers  than  in  any  former 
century  occupied  themselves  in  collecting  and  solving  what  they 
styled  Cases  of  Conscience.  Their  industry  may  have  tended 
as  freely  to  a wrangling  spirit  as  to  a suitable  practice,  but  it 
indicates  an  advance  along  the  line  of  moral  consciousness.  The 
moral  law,  in  the  view  of  Occam  as  in  that  of  Scotus,  is  founded 
■upon  the  will  of  God.  The  just  and  the  unjust  are  what  He  has 


192 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD — FEATURES. 


declared  to  be  such,  by  attaching  to  them  the  rewards  and  pun- 
ishments of  another  life.  Had  His  will  been  different,  He  would 
have  sanctioned  other  principles  than  those  which  we  are  now 
tauo*ht  to  consider  as  the  foundation  of  the  ffood. 

O O 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  also,  that  moral  duties  were  explained,, 
and  moral  precepts  enforced  by  allegories  of  a new  and  whimsi- 
cal kind,  as  the  Vision,  and  by  examples  drawn  from  the  quali- 
ties and  habits  of  brutes.  A thousand  picturesque  legends  centre 
on  the  intimate  connection  of  the  hermit  with  the  animal  world 
in  the  lonely  deserts  of  the  East  or  in  the  vast  forests  of  Europe. 

Christianity,  as  the  main  source  of  the  moral  development  of 
nations,  has  discharged  its  office  less  by  the  inculcation  of  a 
system  of  ethics  than  by  the  attractive  influence  of  its  perfect 
ideal, — the  character  of  the  Christian  Founder. 

Resume. — Parliament  grew  steadily  in  power  and  impor- 
tance. The  popular  element  was  beginning  to  manifest  itself  in 
government.  Feudal  bondage  was  relaxing.  The  spirit  of  free- 
dom, which  heretofore  had  animated  only  the  noble  and  the 
high-born,  was  now  inflaming  the  heart  of  the  serf.  There  was 
an  almost  simultaneous  movement  of  the  lower  orders  in  various 
countries,  owing  plainly  to  general  causes  affecting  European 
society.  Amalgamation  of  races  and  hard-won  concessions  from 
despotic  kings  were  creating  an  independent  body  of  freemen. 

Laws  were  inadequately  administered.  Property  was  insecure. 
The  dwelling  of  the  peasant  was  open  to  plunder,  without  hope- 
of  redress.  Poverty  and  ignorance  hovered  over  the  masses. 
Domestic  virtues  were  but  slightly  felt.  Ideas  of  feasting  and 
defense  were  pushed  into  the  foreground.  Luxury  was  inele- 
gant, pleasures  indelicate,  pomp  cumbersome  and  unwieldy. 
War  stood  on  the  right,  and  riot  on  the  left. 

The  angry,  fretful  spirit  of  the  working  classes  was  joined  to 
a restless  state  on  religious  matters,  issuing  in  satire  and  stern 
attack.  The  multiplied  abuses  in  different  branches  of  the 
Church,  strongly  supported  indeed  by  the  overshadowing  super- 
stition of  the  land,  were  yet  at  war  with  stubborn  English  in- 
stincts,— love  of  home,  industry,  and  justice.  Theory  and  prac- 
tice were  corrupt,  and  the  corruption  irritated  the  ethical  sense 
of  the  few  and  the  common  sense  of  the  many;  the  first  result 
finding  representation  in  Wycliffe,  the  second  in  Chaucer. 


RESUME. 


193 


Every  department  of  life  was  penetrated  with  the  beliefs,  or 
interwoven  with  the  interests  of  theology.  Astronomy  was  be^ 
wildered  with  astrology,  chemistry  ran  into  alchemy,  philosophy 
traversed  mechanically  the  region  of  arid  abstractions,  science 
— pursued  in  suspicious  secrecy  — wantoned  in  the  grotesque 
chimeras  of  magical  phantoms,  and  the  physician’s  medicines 
were  powerless  unless  the  priests  said  prayers  over  them.  Four 
chief  causes  were  operating  to  emancipate  the  intellect  from  its 
servile  submission  and  faith: 

1.  The  rapid  growth  of  the  industrial  classes, — at  all  times 
separated  from  theological  tendencies. 

2.  The  awakening  of  a spirit  of  bold  inquiry. 

3.  The  discredit  fallen  upon  the  Church  on  account  of  the 
rival  popes. 

4.  The  corruption  of  the  monasteries. 

Literature  was  affected  and  shaped  by  two  generic  forces, — 
foreign  and  indigenous: 

1.  Classical , wrought  into  Latin  Christianity  or  translated 
into  scholastic  tomes,  as  a benefit  of  instruction,  but  shown 
chiefly  and  most  directly  in  a trading-stock  of  semi-historical 
tales. 

2.  Italian , embodied  in  the  sweet  and  stately  measures  of 
Dante  or  Petrarch  and  the  studied  prose  or  verse  of  Boccaccio,  in 
which  the  spirit  of  the  antique  was  seen  as  in  a modern  mirror. 

3.  French , steeped  in  the  imagery  of  Southern  beauty  and 
closely  connected  with  the  over-strained  sentiments  of  chivalry, 
rising  to  its  height  and  dying  in  the  translation  of  the  Romaunt 
of  the  Rose. 

4.  Religious , the  atmosphere,  the  climate,  under  which  the 
literary  product  springs,  grows,  and  derives  its  vigor  of  life;  a 
perpetual  irritant,  arousing,  with  individual  energy,  the  Teutonic 
conscience  and  the  English  good  sense. 

5.  Social , of  half-barbaric  cast,  violent  in  pride,  prodigal  in 
splendor,  extravagant  in  its  fanciful  virtues,  gross  in  its  real 
vices. 

6.  Linguistic , able  — since  now  almost  devoid  of  inflections  — 
to  receive  all  the  words  of  other  languages  that  any  might  bring 
to  it;  open  for  all  uses,  waiting  for  the  hand  of  a master-builder 
to  consolidate  and  temper  it. 

13 


194  INITIATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


7.  Formal , almost  exclusively  poetic,  and  dividing  itself  into 
two  schools — romantic  and  religious;  the  one  following  Conti- 
nental models,  the  other  reviving  the  laws  of  Saxon  verse. 

An  age  of  heightened  life,  of  wider  culture,  or  more  harmon- 
ized society,  into  which  are  born  a reformer,  whose  call  awakes 
the  spirit  of  national  independence  and  moral  earnestness,  and  a 
poet  — not  a rhymer,  but  a ‘maker,’  who  has  something  new  to 
say,  and  has  found  the  art  of  saying  it  beautifully.  Against  the 
ruder,  sadder  lines  of  Langland,  which  paint  with  terrible  fidelity 
the  hunger,  toil,  and  misery  of  the  poor  man’s  life,  are  the  fresh, 
glad  notes  of  Chaucer,  which  breathe  the  perfumed  elegance  and 
luxury  of  the  court. 


MANDEVILLE. 

Now  I am  comen  hom  to  reste. 

Biography. — Born  at  St.  Albans,  about  twenty  miles  north 
of  London,  in  the  year  1300.  He  studied  medicine,  but  the 
globe  was  his  home;  and,  at  a time  when  the  Orient  was  but  a 
Land  of  Fairy,  impelled  by  an  irresistible  desire  of  change  and  a 
deep  religious  emotion,  he  set  forth  ‘on  the  day  of  St.  Michael, 
in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1322,  passed  the  sea,  and  went  the  way 
to  Hierusalem,  to  behold  the  mervayles  of  Inde.’  With  no  cre- 
dentials but  his  honorable  sword,  and  his  medical  science  (which 
might  sometimes  prove  as  perilous),  he  penetrated  into  Turkey, 
Persia,  Armenia,  India,  Ethiopia,  China,  spending  three  years  at 
Pekin;  joined  a Mahometan  army  in  Palestine,  served  under  the 
Sultan  of  Egypt;  and  after  an  absence  of  more  than  thirty  years, 
returned,  as  another  Ulysses,  to  find  himself  forgotten  save  by  a 
few  thin  and  withered  friends  of  his  youth,  who  supposed  him 
lost  and  dead. 

Gout  and  the  aching  of  his  limbs  had  ‘defined  the  end  of  my 
labor  against  my  will,  God  knoweth.’  He  wrote  for  ‘solace  in 
his  wretched  rest’;  then,  with  his  thoughts  ever  passing  beyond 
the  equator,  he  set  off  again  on  another  roving  expedition,  and 
overtaken  with  illness  died  at  Belgium  in  1371. 


OUR  FIRST  TRAVELLER. 


195 


Writings. — Travels , first  composed  in  Latin,  which  was 
afterwards  translated  into  French,  and  lastly  out  of  French  into 
English,  that  ‘every  man  of  my  nation  may  understand  it.’  The 
book  was  submitted  to  the  pope  and  to  ‘ his  wise  council,’  who 
after  a critical  review  ‘ratified  and  confirmed  my  book  in  all 
points.’  In  this  ‘true’  book  are  many  things  very  untrue,  but 
the  author  himself  designs  no  imposition.  With  the  eyes  and 
ears  of  a child,  he  has  stood  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
and  says: 

‘ Zee  schull  undirstonde  that  whan  men  comen  to  Jerusalem  her  first  pilgrymage  is 
to  the  chirche  of  the  Holy  Sepulcr  wher  oure  Lord  was  buryed,  that  is  withoute  the  cytee 
on  the  north  syde.  But  it  is  now  enclosed  in  with  the  ton  wall.  And  there  is  a full  fair 
chirche  all  round,  and  open  above,  and  covered  with  leed.  And  on  the  west  syde  is  a fair 
tour  and  an  high  for  belles  strongly  made.  And  in  the  myddes  of  the  chirche  is  a taber- 
nacle as  it  wer  a lytyll  hows,  made  with  a low  lityll  dore;  and  that  tabernacle  is  made  in 
maner  of  a half  a compas  right  curiousely  and  richely  made  of  gold  and  azure  and  othere 
riche  coloures,  full  nobelyche  made.  And  in  the  ryght  side  of  that  tabernacle  is  the 
sepulcre  of  oure  Lord.  And  the  tabernacle  is  viij  fote  long  and  v fote  wide,  and  xj  fote 
in  heghte.  And  it  is  not  longe  sithe  the  sepulcre  was  all  open,  that  men  myghte  kisse  it 
and  touche  it.  . . . And  there  is  a lamp  that  hongeth  befor  the  sepulcre  that  brenneth 
light,  and  on  the  Gode  ffryday  it  goth  out  be  him  self,  at  that  hour  that  our  Lord  roos 
fro  deth  to  lyve.  Also  within  the  chirche  at  the  right  side  besyde  the  queer  of  the  churche 
is  the  Mount  of  Calvarye,  wher  our  Lord  was  don  on  the  cros.  And  it  is  a roche  of  white 
coloure  and  a lytill  medled  with  red.  And  the  cros  was  set  in  a morteys  in  the  same 
roche,  and  on  that  roche  dropped  the  woundes  of  our  Lord,  whan  he  was  pyned  on  the 
cros,  and  that  is  cleped  Golgatha.  And  men  gon  up  to  that  Golgatha  be  degrees.  And 
in  the  place  of  that  morteys  was  Adames  hed  found  after  Noes  flode,  in  tokene  that  the 
synnes  of  Adam  scholde  ben  bought  in  that  same  place.’ 

With  pious  artlessness,  in  which  the  marvellous  delights,  he  re- 
lates how  St.  John  sleeps  placid  and  uncorrupted  in  abysmal 
gloom, — 

4 God-preserved,  as  though  a treasure, 

Kept  unto  the  waking  day 1 : — 

‘From  Pathmos  men  gone  unto  Epheism,  a fair  citee  and  nyghe  to  the  see.  And 
there  dyede  Seynte  Johne,  and  was  buryed  behynde  the  highe  Awtiere,  in  a toumbe. 
And  there  is  a faire  chirche.  For  Christene  mene  weren  wont  to  holden  that  place 
alweyes.  And  in  the  tombe  of  Seynt  John  is  noughte  but  manna,  that  is  clept  Aungeles 
mete.  For  his  body  was  translated  into  Paradys.  And  Turkes  holden  now  alle  that 
place  and  the  citee  and  the  Chirche.  And  all  Asie  the  lesse  is  yclept  Turkye.  And  ye 
shalle  undrestond,  that  Seynt  Johne  bid  make  his  grave  there  in  his  Lyf,  and  leyd  him- 
self there-inne  all  quyk.  And  therefore  somme  men  seyn,  that  he  dyed  noughte,  but 
that  he  resteth  there  till  the  Day  of  Doom.  And  forsoothe  there  is  a gret  marveule: 
For  men  may  see  there  the  erthe  of  the  tombe  apertly  many  tymes  stcren  and  movcn, 
as  there  weren  quykke  thinges  undrc.’ 

A suggestion  of  the  picturesque  myth  of  the  Seven  Sleepers. 
So  Rip  Van  Winkle  passed  twenty  years  slumbering  in  the 
Catskill  mountains.  Even  Napoleon  is  believed  among  some 
of  the  French  peasantry  to  be  sleeping  on  in  like  manner. 


196  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


w ho  has  not  reverted,  fondly,  regretfully,  to  the  spring-time 
of  his  being,  with  its  simple  pleasures  and  unconscious  joys,  as 
the  Eden  of  his  individual  existence?  It  may  not  be  precisely 
defined,  but  it  is  there  — the  same  for  all  — somewhere  beyond 
the  storm-line  of  perils  and  pitfalls.  Even  so  the  generations, 
world-worn  and  foot-sore,  look  longingly  back  to  the  ‘shady 
bowers,  the  vernal  airs,  the  roses  without  thorns,’  of  Paradise. 
None  has  seen  it,  many  have  sought  it  in  vain,  but  all  concur 
in  the  fact.  In  the  imagination  of  the  ages  it  is  there , — or 
was,  somewhere  in  the  dewy  morn  of  mortal  life  before  the  im- 
measurable wreck.  Thus  our  honest  traveller’s  description  of 
the  locality  of  this  delectable  spot  is  much  the  same  as  given 
by  men  of  finer  genius  centuries  afterwards.  He  fairly  acknowl- 
edges that  he  cannot  speak  of  it  properly,  ‘for  I was  not  there.’ 
With  charming  simplicity  he  adds: 

‘ The  earthly  Paradise,  or  Garden  of  Eden,  as  wise  men  say,  is  the  highest  point  of 
the  earth,  and  it  is  so  high  that  it  nearly  touches  the  circle  of  the  earth  there  as  the  moon 
makes  her  turn.  And  it  is  so  high  that  the  flood  of  Noah  might  not  come  to  it.  And 
Paradise  is  enclosed  all  about  with  a wall,  and  men  know  not  whereof  it  is,  for  the  wall 
is  all  covered  over  with  moss  as  it  seems,  and  it  seems  not  that  this  is  natural  stone.  . . . 
And  you  shall  understand  that  no  man  that  is  mortal  shall  approach  to  that  Paradise, 
for  by  land  may  no  man  go,  for  wild  beasts  that  are  in  the  deserts,  and  for  the  high 
mountains  and  great  huge  rocks  that  no  man  may  pass  by  for  the  dark  places  there; 
and  by  the  rivers  no  man  may  go,  for  the  water  runs  so  roughly  and  sharply,  because  it 
comes  down  so  outrageously  from  the  high  places  above  that  it  runs  so  in  great  waves 
that  no  ship  may  run  or  sail  against  it.  Many  lords  in  past  time  have  attempted  to  pass 
by  these  rivers  into  Paradise,  with  full,  great  companies,  but  they  might  not  speed  in 
their  voyage,  and  many  died  of  weariness  of  rowing  against,  the  strong  waves,  and  many 
of  them  became  blind  or  deaf  by  the  noise  of  the  water,  and  many  perished  that  were 
lost  in  the  waves.  So  that  no  mortal  man  may  approach  that  place  without  special 
grace  of  God,  and  of  that  place  I can  tell  you  no  more.' 

When  he  relates  from  his  own  personal  observation,  it  is  no 
longer  with  the  prelude  of  ‘men  seyn.’  Of  Chinese  royalty  he 
says: 

‘The  gret  Kyng  hathe  every  day,  50  fair  Damyseles,  alle  Maydenes,  that  serven  him 
everemore  at  his  Mete.  And  whan  he  is  at  the  Table,  thei  bryngen  him  liys  Mete  at 
every  tyme,  5 and  5 to  gedre.  And  in  bryngynge  hire  Servyse,  thei  syngen  a Song.  And 
after  that,  thei  kutten  his  Mete,  and  putten  it  in  his  Mouther  for  he  touchethe  no  thing 
ne  liandlethe  nought,  but  holdethe  evere  more  his  Hondes  before  him,  upon  the  Table. 
For  he  hath  so  longe  Nayles,  that  he  may  take  no  thing,  ne  handle  no  thing.  For  the 
Noblesse  of  that  Contree  is  to  have  longe  Nayles,  and  to  make  hem  growen  alle  weys  to 
ben  as  longe  as  men  may.  And  there  ben  manye  in  that  Contree,  that  han  hyre  Nayles 
so  longe,  that  thei  envyronne  alle  the  Hond:  and  that  is  gret  Noblesse.  And  the  No- 
blesse of  the  Women,  is  for  to  have  smale  Feet  and  litille:  and  therefore  anon  as  thei 
ben  born,  they  leet  bynde  hire  Feet  so  streyte,  that  thei  may  not  growen  half  as  nature 
wolde:  And  alle  weys  theise  Damyseles,  that  T spak  of  beforn,  syngen  alle  the  tyme  that 
this  riche  man  etethe:  and  when  that  he  etethe  no  more  of  his  firste  Fours,  thanne  other 
-5  and  5 of  faire  Damyseles  bryngen  him  his  seconde  Cours,  alle  weys  syngynge,  as  thei 


OUR  FIRST  TRAVELLER. 


197 


dicle  beforn.  And  so  thei  don  contynuelly,  every  day,  to  the  cnde  of  his  Mete.  And  in 
this  manere  he  ledethe  his  Lif.  And  so  dide  thei  before  him,  that  weren  his  Auncestres; 
and  so  shulle  thei  that  comen  aftre  him,  with  outen  doynge  of  ony  Dedes  of  Armes:  but 
lyven  evere  more  thus  in  ese,  as  a Swyn,  that  is  fedde  in  Sty,  for  to- ben  made  fatte.’ 

He  enters  the  Valley  Perilous,  of  which  he  has  heard  with  won- 
dering awe;  and  what  he  does  not  see,  his  horrifying  fancy  sup- 
plies: 

‘Beside  that  isle  of  the  Mistorak,  upon  the  left  side,  nigh  to  the  river  Phison,  is  a 
marvelous  thing.  There  is  a vale  between  the  mountains  that  durcth  near  a four  mile. 
And  some  clepen  it  the  vale  enchanted,  some  clepen  it  the  vale  of  devils,  and  some 
clepen  it  the  vale  perilous.  . . . This  vale  is  full  of  devils,  and  hath  been  always.  And 
men  say  there  that  it  is  one  of  the  entries  of  hell.  In  that  vale  is  plenty  of  gold  and 
silver;  wherefore  many  misbelieving  men,  and  many  Christian  men  also,  gon  in  often - 
time,  for  to  have  of  the  treasure  that  there  is,  but  few  comen  again ; and  namely  of  the 
misbelieving  men,  lie  of  the  Christian  men  nouther:  for  they  ben  anon  strangled  of 
devils.’ 

Naturally, — 

‘I  was  more  devout  then  than  ever  I was  before  or  after,  and  all  for  the  dread  of 
fiends  that  I saw  in  divers  figures.’ 

He  believes  the  earth  to  be  round,  but  marvels  how  the  antipodes, 
whose  feet  are  right  upwards  toward  us,  do  not  fall  into  the  fir- 
mament. The  more  wonderful  the  narrative,  the  deeper  it  sinks 
into  the  softest  and  richest  moulds  of  the  most  germinating  mind. 
‘The  trees  of  the  sun  and  of  the  moon,’  he  observes,  ‘are  well 
known  to  have  spoken  to  King  Alexander,  and  warned  him  of  his 
death.’  In  the  Island  of  Lango,  not  far  from  Crete,  he  forgets 
not  the  unfortunate  Lady  of  the  Land  who  remained  a dragoness 
because  no  one  had  the  hardihood  to  kiss  her  lips  to  disenchant 
her.  Near  Bethlehem,  he  assures  us,  is  the  field  Floridus , in 
which  a fair  maiden  was  unjustly  condemned  to  die: 

‘And  as  the  fire  began  to  burn  about  her  she  made  her  prayers  to  our  Lord,  that  as 
truly  as  she  was  not  guilty  He  would  of  His  merciful  grace  help  her  and  make  it  known 
to  all  men.  And  when  she  had  thus  said  she  entered  into  the  fire  and  immediately  it  was 
extinguished,  and  the  fagots  that  were  burning  became  red  rose  trees,  and  those  that 
were  not  kindled  became  white  rose  trees,  full  of  roses.  And  these  were  the  first  rose 
trees , red  and  white , that  ever  man  saw.' 

Style.—  Straightforward,  unpoetical,  unadorned,  idiomatic, 
drawn-out,  as  if  the  idea,  to  be  made  plain,  must  be  driven  in 
and  clinched.  These  several  lines  are  representative: 

‘And  zee  schull  vnderstonde  Machamete  [ Mahomet ] was  born  in  Araybe,  that  was 
first  a pore  knaue  that  kept  cameles  that  wenten  with  marchantes  for  marchandise,  and 
so  befell  that  he  wente  with  the  marchantes  in  to  Egipt,  and  thei  were  thanne  cristene 
in  tho  partyes.  And  at  the  desartes  of  Araybe  he  wente  in  to  a chapel!  wher  a Eremyte 
duelte.  And  whan  he  entered  in  to  the  chapell,  that  was  but  a lytill  and  a low  thing,  and 
had  but  a lytill  dore  and  a low,  than  the  entree  began  to  wexe  so  gret  and  so  large,  and 
so  high,  as  though  it  had  be  of  gret  mynstr,  or  the  zatc  of  a paleys.’ 


198  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Rank. — An  ingenuous  voyager;  the  first  example  of  the 
liberal  and  independent  gentleman  journeying  over  the  world  in 
pursuit  of  knowledge,  honored  wherever  he  went  for  his  talents 
and  personal  accomplishments.  If  he  was  gossipy  and  credulous, 
it  was  because  his  age  was  so.  The  critic  who  thus  comprehends 
him,  will  neither  calumniate  nor  ridicule  him.  A journey  over 
the  globe  at  that  distant  day  was  scarcely  less  solemn  than  a 
departure  to  the  realm  of  spirits;  and,  considering  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  travelled  and  wrote,  he  must  be  conceded 
to  have  been  a remarkable  man.  If  he  related  fables,  he  did  it 
honestly,  while  other  accounts,  long  resting  on  his  single  and  un- 
supported authority,  have  been  confirmed  by  later  discoveries, — 
as  the  burning  of  widows  on  the  funeral  pile  of  their  husbands  — 
the  artificial  egg-hatching  in  Egypt  — the  spheroidal  form  of  the 
earth  — the  crocodile  — the  hippopotamus  — the  Chinese  predilec- 
tion for  small  feet  — the  trees  which  bear  wool  of  which  clothing 
is  made. 

Character. — Studious  from  childhood, -unconquerably  curious 
to  see  the  unknown,  courageous  to  wander  wherever  the  step  of 
man  could  press;  a knight  of  spotless  honor,  a man  of  unim- 
peached probity,  and  a Christian  of  devoted  piety.  Offered  in 
marriage  a Sultan’s  daughter  and  a province,  he  refused  both 
when  his  faith  was  to  be  exchanged  for  Mahometanism.  He  who 
can  mourn  the  wickedness  of  his  country  cannot  be  without  a 
large  measure  of  those  moral,  affectional,  and  religious  faculties, 
whose  fairest,  sweetest  blossom  is  goodness.  On  his  return  to- 
Europe,  he  wrote: 

‘In  our  time  it  may  be  spoken  more  truly  then  of  olde,  that  Vertue  is  gone,  the- 
Church  is  under  foote,  the  Clergie  is  in  crrour,  the  Devill  raigneth,  and  Simonie  beareth 
the  sway.’ 

Influence. — By  the  popularity  of  his  book,  he  did  more, 
probably,  than  any  other  writer  of  the  century,  to  increase  the 
proportion  of  Latin  and  Romance  words  in  the  English  vocabu- 
lary. The  following  are  illustrative:  assembly , inflame , moistenr 
nation , cruelty , corner , date,  defend , idol,  philosopher , plainlyr 
promise,  pronounce,  reconcile,  temporal , publish , monster,  visity 
environ , conquer,  reverend,  spiritual. 

We,  from  whom  the  ethereal  hues  of  that  glowing  day  have 
faded  (alas  !),  may  smile  at  his  budget  of  wonders,  but  to  the- 


PRECURSOR  OF  THE  REFORMATION. 


199 


spirit  of  such  we  owe  perhaps  the  map  of  the  world  and  the 
intercourse  of  nations.  His  Travels  will  always  remain  a deeply 
interesting  monument  of  the  thought  of  the  period. 


WYCLIFFE. 

Honored  of  God  to  be  the  first  Preacher  of  a general  Reformation  to  all  Europe.— 
Milton. 

Biography. — Son  of  a country  squire,  born  1324,  in  the  little 
village  of  Wycliffe — the  cliff  by  the  water.  Entered  Oxford  at 
sixteen,  where  he  distinguished  himself  in  logic  and  theology. 
In  1361,  he  was  elected  Master  of  Balliol,  and  in  that  year  was 
presented  by  his  college  to  the  rectory  of  Fylingham.  Four  years 
later,  he  was  appointed  Warden  of  Canterbury  Hall,  and,  as  the 
champion  of  the  State,  threw  himself  into  the  stormy  disputes 
between  Romanism  and  the  government.  Armed  with  the  degree 
of  Doctor  of  Divinity,  he  began  in  a wooden  hall,  roughly  plastered 
and  roofed  with  thatch,  to  lecture  on  divinity,  boldly  assailing  the 
practices  of  the  Church.  His  fame  in  1374  led  to  his  selection  as 
one  of  an  embassy  to  Bruges,  to  remonstrate  against  the  tribute- 
claims  of  the  papacy,  whose  demands,  amid  the  social  troubles 
from  pestilence,  from  the  cost  of  war,  and  from  the  strife  between 
capital  and  labor,  rose  ever  higher.  Obtaining  some  concessions 
from  the  pope,  he  was  rewarded  with  the  rectorship  of  Lutterworth, 
which  was  afterwards  his  chief  residence.  Identity  of  political 
views  had  allied  him  with  the  powerful  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  who  was  eager  to  drive  the  prelates  from  office  and  to 
seize  their  wealth.  He  had  said  that  church  property,  like  other, 
might  be  employed  for  national  purposes,  and  had  exhorted  the 
clergy  to  return  to  their  original  poverty.  These  offences  were 
not  to  be  forgiven.  On  the  19th  of  February,  1377,  his  grey 
beard  sweeping  to  his  breast,  his  belted  robe  flowing  to  his  feet, 
his  white  staff  firmly  in  his  thin  hand,  he  appeared  before  the 
Bishop  of  London,  to  answer  for  heresy.  By  his  side  were  Lan- 
caster and  the  Marshal  of  England.  There  was  no  trial.  A howl- 
ing  mob,  to  whom  the  Duke  as  the  leader  of  the  baronage  was 


200  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


unpopular,  dissolved  the  meeting.  The  hearts  of  the  monks 
burned  to  smite  him  down ; and  again,  at  the  close  of  the  ensuing 
year,  he  was  summoned  to  the  Capitol.  Supported  by  the  Crown 
and  the  people,  he  bore  himself  defiantly  and  returned  to  Oxford 
in  peace.  ‘It  is  not  possible,’  he  asserted,  ‘that  a man  should  be 
excommunicated  to  his  damage,  unless  he  were  first  and  princi- 
pally excommunicated  by  himself.’  In  his  chamber,  where  he  lay 
at  the  point  of  death,  eight  men  urged  him  to  recant.  When 
they  had  done,  he  rose  by  help  of  his  servant,  and,  ‘holding  them 
with  his  glittering  eye,’  cried:  ‘I  shall  not  die,  but  live;  and 
again  declare  the  evil  deeds  of  the  friars  ! ’ In  1381,  deserted 
and  alone,  he  openly  inveighed  against  the  doctrine  of  transub- 
stantiation.  The  university,  panic-stricken,  first  condemned  him, 
then  tacitly  adopted  his  cause.  In  the  presence  of  his  class,  he 
had  challenged  a refutation  of  his  conclusions,  and  was  com- 
manded by  Lancaster  to  be  silent,  to  which  he  replied:  ‘I  believe 
that  in  the  end  the  truth  will  conquer.’  His  courage  had  restored 
confidence:  but  turning  from  the  rich  and  learned,  he  appealed 
to  England  at  large,  and,  from  being  a schoolman,  became  a 
pamphleteer.  His  enemies  were  persistent.  Of  twenty -four  pro- 
positions, carefully  collated  from  his  works,  a council  solemnly 
decreed  ten  to  be  heretical  and  the  rest  erroneous.  Alarmed  by 
the  Peasant  Revolt  and  the  attitude  of  the  barons,  Richard  II,  to 
strengthen  his  position  by  an  alliance  with  the  Church,  issued  a 
royal  order  of  expulsion  from  the  university;  and  Wy cliff e, 
silenced  at  Oxford,  retired  to  the  hovels  of  Lutterworth,  where 
he  forged  the  great  weapon  of  future  warfare  against  the  tri- 
umphant hierarchy, — the  English  Bible.  Summoned  to  appear 
at  Rome,  his  failing  strength  inspired  the  sarcastic  reply: 

‘I  am  always  glad  to  explain  my  faith  to  anyone,  and  above  all  to  the  Bishop  of 
Rome ; for  I take  it  for  granted  that  if  it  be  orthodox  he  will  confirm  it;  if  it  be  erroneous, 
he  will  correct  it.  . . . Now  Christ  during  his  life  upon  earth  was  of  all  men  the  poorest, 
casting  from  Him  all  worldly  authority.  I deduce  from  these  premises,  as  a simple 
counsel  of  my  own,  that  the  Pope  should  surrender  all  temporal  authority  to  the  civil 
power,  and  advise  his  clergy  to  do  the  same.’ 

The  terrible  strain  on  his  energies  enfeebled  by  age  and  study 
had  induced  paralysis,  and  a final  stroke  while  he  was  hearing 
mass  in  his  parish  church  was  followed  a day  or  two  later  by  his 
quiet  death,  December  31,  1384.  The  lips  of  malice  pursued 
him  with  redoubled  fury;  and,  besides  assuring  the  people  of 


PRECURSOR  OF  THE  REFORMATION. 


201 


his  eternal  damnation,  took  care  to  represent  his  malady  as  the 
visible  judgment  of  Heaven  for  his  heresies.1 

Writings. — An  incredible  number  of  sermons,  letters,  tracts, 
and  treatises,  in  Latin  and  English,  asserting  collectively  and 
essentially: 

1.  All  power  is  of  God.  Hence  the  royal  is  as  sacred  as  the 
ecclesiastical.  The  king  is  as  truly  His  vicar  as  is  the  Pope. 

2.  Each  individual  holds  the  dominion  of  his  conscience,  not 
of  a mediating  priesthood,  but  immediately  of  his  Creator,  who 
is  the  tribunal  of  personal  appeal. 

3.  The  bread  in  the  Eucharist  is  not  the  real  body  of  Christ, 
but  only  its  sign. 

4.  The  Roman  Church  has  no  true  claim  to  headship  over 
other  churches. 

5.  Temporal  privileges  cannot  be  exacted  or  defended  by 
spiritual  censures. 

G.  Ecclesiastical  courts  should  be  subject  to  the  civil. 

7.  The  clergy  ought  not  to  possess  temporal  wealth;  they 
should  be  maintained  by  the  free  alms  of  their  flocks. 

8.  Pilgrimages  and  image-worship  are  akin  to  idolatry. 

9.  Priests  have  no  power  to  absolve  from  sin. 

10.  The  Bible  is  the  one  ground  of  faith,  and  it  is  the  right 
of  every  man  to  examine  it  for  himself. 

What  a result  for  the  fourteenth  century  ! What  a promise 
for  the  renovated  head  and  heart  of  the  sixteenth  ! Religion 
must  be  secularized  — no  longer  forestalled  — and  purged  from 
indulgences  and  rosaries.  Let  each  hear  and  read  for  himself. 
To  this  end,  let  God’s  word  quit  the  learned  schools  and  the 
dusty  shelves  of  the  monastery.  To  the  mass  it  is  a sealed 
book,  locked  up  in  a dead  and  foreign  tongue,  covered  with  a 
confusion  of  commentaries  and  Fathers.  How  far  it  is  corrupted 
by  the  traditions  and  devices  of  men,  we  know  not  till  we  see  it 
in  the  simple  speech  of  the  market  and  the  fireside: 

‘ Ech  place  of  holy  writ,  both  opyn  and  derk,  techith  mekenes  and  charite;  and 
therfore  he  that  kepith  mekenes  and  charite  hath  the  trewe  undirstondyng  and  perfec- 
tionn  of  al  holi  writ.  . . . Therfore  no  simple  man  of  wit  be  aferd  unmesurabli  to  studie 
in  the  text  of  holy  writ.’ 

1 The  impartial  historian  of  opinions  most  he  early  impressed  with  the  mournful 
truth  that  all  religions  agree  in  forever  rewarding  the  believer  and  forever  damning  the 
one  who  doubts  or  denies, — the  heretic.  Under  the  great  laws  of  eternal  development, 
are  we  not  all  heretics? 


202  INITIATIVE  PEKIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


In  this  spirit,  Protestant  Wycliffe  translates  the  Testament,  Old 
and  New,  which  men  will  consult,  not  for  amusement,  but  to  find 
in  it  their  doom  of  life  and  death,  and  to  learn  a new  worship, 
without  the  rites  that  smother  a living  piety  beneath  external 
forms. 

Style  . — Rugged,  homely,  sometimes  slovenly ; but  always 
clear,  terse,  vehement,  stinging,  as  if  feeling  ever  the  galling 
shackles  of  spiritual  despotism.  The  mind  intent  upon  the  eter- 
nal tragedy  of  the  conscience  is  disdainful  of  elegance. 

Rank. — In  the  immense  range  of  his  intellectual  power,  he 
stood  in  Oxford  without  a rival.  Like  Bacon,  Scotus,  and  Occam, 
an  audacious  partisan;  unlike  them,  a dexterous  politician.  The 
organizer  of  a religious  order,  the  founder  of  our  later  English 
prose;  first  of  the  great  Reformers  and  last  of  the  great  Scholas- 
tics. The  grandeur  of  his  position  is  marked,  as  well  by  the 
reluctance  to  adopt  extreme  measures  against  him,  as  by  the 
admission  of  a contemporary  and  opponent,  who  acknowledged 
him  to  be  ‘the  greatest  theologian  of  the  day,  second  to  none 
ms  a philosopher,  and  incomparable  as  a schoolman.’  To  be  the 
first,  amidst  a host  of  prejudices  and  errors,  to  strike  out  into  a 
new  and  untried  way,  indicates  a genius  above  the  common  order. 

Character. — Devout,  benevolent,  austere;  a man  of  sterling 
sense,  of  amazing  industry,  of  ardent  zeal,  with  the  stout-heart- 
edness  that  dared  be  singular  for  God  and  the  right.  Altogether 
a brave  and  admirable  spirit,  open  to  the  divine  significance  of 
life;  seeing  through  the  show  of  things,  believing  in  the  truth  of 
things,  and  striking  with  the  poets,  in  a troublous  period,  the 
first  blow  of  demolition  against  an  ancient  thing  grown  false, 
preparatory  afar  off  to  a new  thing. 

Influence. — To  Wycliffe  is  due  the  establishment  of  a sacred 
dialect,  which,  with  slight  variation,  as  will  appear  below  in  his 
version  of  the  first  chapter  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  Mark , has  con- 
tinued to  be  the  language  of  devotion  to  the  present  day: 

*1.  The  bigynnyngc  of  the  gospel  of  Jhesu  Crist,  the  sone  of  God. 

2.  As  it  is  writun  in  Ysaie,  the  prophete,  Lo!  I send  myn  angel  bifore  thi  face,  that 
schal  make  thi  weye  redy  before  thee. 

3.  The  voyce  of  oon  cryinge  in  desert,  Make  ye  redy  the  weye  of  the  Lord,  make  ye 
ihis  pathis  rihtful. 


PRECURSOR  OF  THE  REFORMATION. 


203 


4.  John  was  in  desert  baptisynge,  and  prechinge  the  baptysm  of  penaunce,  into 
remiscioun  of  synnes. 

5.  And  alle  men  of  Jerusalem  wenten  out  to  him  and  al  the  cuntree  of  Judee;  and 
weren  baptisid  of  him  in  the  flood  of  Jordan,  knowlechinge  her  synnes. 

0.  And  John  was  clothid  with  heeris  of  camelis,  and  a girdil  of  skyn  abowte  his 
leendis;  and  he  oet  locusts,  and  hony  of  the  wode,  and  prechide,  seyinge: 

7.  A strengere  than  I schal  come  aftir  me,  of  whom  I knelinge  am  not  worthi  for  to 
vndo,  or  vnbynde,  the  thwong  of  his  schoon. 

8.  I have  baptisid  you  in  water:  forsothe  he  shall  baptise  you  in  the  Holy  Goost.'  . . . 

He  and  his  school  introduced  or  popularized  many  Latin  and 
Romance  terms;  and  thus  enriched  literary  diction  by  enriching 
that  of  familiar  currency,  from  which  the  Shakespeares  draw 
their  stock  of  living  and  breathing  words. 

He  accomplished  a work  which  no  ecclesiastical  censure  could 
set  aside.  The  period  was  eminently  favorable  to  a successful 
revolt  through  a general  spirit  of  disaffection  to  the  pope.  Men 
of  rank  became  his  adherents.  The  learned  of  Oxford  were  his 
apostles.  Wandering  scholars  carried  his  writing  into  Bohemia, 
and  disseminated  his  principles.  Lollardism  spread  through 
every  class  of  society,  a floating  mass  of  religious  and  social  dis- 
content. The  grave  nor  persecution  could  extinguish  the  new 
forces  of  thought  and  feeling  which  were  breaking  through  the 
crust  of  feudalism.  His  Bible  was  proscribed;  his  votaries,  as 
>vill  presently  appear,  were  imprisoned  and  burned;  but  the  seed 
had  been  dropped,  and  was  rooted  in  the  soil.  Thirty  years 
hence  the  vultures  of  the  law  will  ungrave  him,  and  consuming 
to  ashes  what  little  they  can  find,  will  cast  it  into  the  brook  that 
runs  hard  by,  thinking  thus  to  make  away  both  with  his  bones 
and  his  doctrines;  but  — 

‘As  thou  these  ashes,  little  brook,  wilt  bear 
Into  the  Avon  — Avon  to  the  tide 
Of  Severn  — Severn  to  the  narrow  seas  — 

Into  main  ocean  they  — this  deed  accurst 
An  emblem  yields  to  friends  and  enemies, 

How  the  bold  teacher's  doctrine,  sanctified 

By  truth,  shall  spread  throughout  the  world  dispersed.’ 

When  the  ‘simple  preachers’  have  slumbered  a century  and  a 
half,  their  day  of  triumph  will  be  at  hand.  The  age,  though 
strongly  disposed,  is  not  yet  ripe  for  revolution.  Reforms  or- 
dained to  be  permanent  are  of  slow  growth. 


204  INITIATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


CHAUCER. 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still.— Tennyson. 

Biography. — Born  ill  London,  1328, — 1 the  city  of  London, 
that  is  to  me  so  dear  and  sweet  in  which  I was  forth-grown’; 
studied  at  Cambridge,  then  at  Oxford;  acquired  all  branches  of 
scholastic  and  elegant  literature,  Latin,  Italian,  English,  and 
French;  was  page  in  the  royal  household;  served  in  the  army, 
was  taken  prisoner  in  France;  again  at  the  court  of  Edward  III, 
the  most  splendid  in  Europe,  surrounded  by  the  wit,  beauty,  and 
gallantry  of  chivalry;  marries  the  queen’s  maid  of  honor,  wonder- 
ing that  Heaven  had  fashioned  such  a being, — 

‘And  in  so  little  space 
Made  such  a body,  and  such  face; 

So  great  beauty  and  such  features 
More  than  be  in  other  creatures!’ 

thus  brother-in-law  of  the  heir  apparent  to  the  throne,  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  strengthening  their  political  bond  by  a family  alliance; 
an  ambassador  in  open  or  secret  missions  to  Florence,  Genoa, 
Flanders;  takes  part  in  pomps  of  France  and  Milan;  converses 
with  Petrarch,  perhaps  with  Boccaccio  and  Froissart  ; is  high  up 
and  low  down, — now  a placeholder,  now  disgraced,  now  the  ad- 
mired of  the  Court,  now  an  exile  dreading  to  see  the  face  of  a 
stranger,  now  incarcerated  in  the  Tower,  and  again  basking  in 
the  sunshine  of  kingly  favor;  at  one  time  occupied  with  cere- 
monies and  processions,  at  another  secluded  in  his  lovely  retreat 
at  Woodstock;  finally,  weary  of  the  hurry  and  turmoil  of  the 
varied  and  brilliant  world,  retiring  to  the  country  quiet  of  Don- 
nington  Castle;  then,  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  years,  dying 
in  Palace-yard  on  the  25th  of  October,  1400, — his  earthly  friend- 
ship dissolved, — himself  the  only  withered  leaf  upon  a stately 
branch.  He  was  the  first  buried  in  what  is  now  famous  as  the 
Poets’  Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

What  an  education  was  that,  with  its  splendor,  varieties,  con- 
trasts ! What  a stage  for  the  mind  and  eyes  of  an  artist ! 

Appearance. — Of  middle  stature,  late  in  life  inclining  to 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


205 


corpulency, — a point  upon  which  the  Tabard  host  takes  occasion 
to  jest  with  him: 

‘Now  ware  you,  sirs,  and  let  this  man  have  place; 

He  in  the  waist  is  shaped  as  well  as  I ; 

This  were  a poppet  in  armes  to  embrace.1 

Of  full  face,  indicative  of  health  and  serenity;  of  fair  complexion, 
verging*  towards  paleness;  of  dusky  yellow  hair,  short  and  thin, 
with  small  round-trimmed  beard;  of  aquiline  nose,  of  expansive 
marble-like  forehead,  and  drooping  eyes, — a peculiarity  likewise 
noticed  by  the  host: 

“‘What  man  art  thou,1’  quoth  he, 

“That  lookest  as  thou  wonldest  find  a hare? 

Forever  on  the  ground  I see  thee  stare.1* 1 

His  ordinary  dress  consisted  of  a loose  frock  of  camlet,  reaching 
to  the  knee,  with  wide  sleeves  fastened  at  the  wrist;  a dark  hood, 
with  tippet , or  tail,  which  indoors  hung  down  his  back,  and 
outdoors  was  twisted  round  his  head;  bright-red  stockings,  and 
black,  horned  shoes. 

Diction. — As  to  the  ancient  accentuation,  we  are  much  in 
the  dark.  Certainly  it  was  not  in  all  respects  like  that  of  our 
own  day.  It  is  slightly  different  even  in  Shakespeare  and  his 
contemporaries  from  what  it  now  is.  For  example,  aspect , which 
in  their  time  was  always  accented  on  the  last  syllable,  is  now 
accented  on  the  first.  A short  composition  is  now  called  an 
essay , but  a century  ago  it  was  called  an  essay.  Thus  Pope, — 

‘And  write  next  winter  more  essays  on  man.1 
At  an  earlier  period,  this  change  was  much  more  active.  There 
was  no  recognised  standard  of  accidence,  and  the  modes  of  spell- 
ing, as  of  emphasis,  were  extremely  irregular.  It  will  render  the 
approach  to  Chaucer’s  poetry  easier,  to  remember: 

1.  That  the  Romance  canons  of  verse,  which  were  adopted  as 
the  laws  of  poetical  composition,  tended  to  throw  the  stress  of 
voice  upon  the  final  syllable,  contrary  to  the  Saxon  articulation, 
which  inclined  to  emphasize  the  initial  syllable.  Hence  the  pro- 
nunciation would  oscillate  between  the  two  systems.  Thus  Chau- 
cer has  langage  in  one  line,  langdge  in  another,  as  the  verse 
may  require. 

2.  The  eel  at  the  end  of  verbs,  and  the  es,  when  it  is  the  plural 
or  possessive  termination  of  a noun,  should  generally  be  sounded 
as  distinct  syllables. 


206  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


3.  The  presence  of  their  Anglo-Saxon  root  is  often  denoted 
by  an  n at  the  end  of  words;  as,  ‘Thou  shalt  ben  quit’  (be), 
* withouten  doubt’  (without),  ‘I  shall  you  tellen ’ (tell). 

4.  Not  infrequently  two  negatives  are  used;  as,  ‘I  n’ill  nat 
go  ’ (will  not),  ‘ I w’ am  nat  sure  ’ (am  not),  ‘ I ne  owe  hem  not  a 
word  ’ (do  not  owe). 

5.  Forms  of  the  personal  pronouns  are  exhibited  in  the  follow- 


ing  declension: 

Sing.  1st  person. 

Nom.  I,  Ic 

2d  person. 
thou 

3d  person. 
he 

she 

hit,  it 

Gen. 

min,  mi 

thin,  thi 

his 

hire,  hir 

his 

Acc. 

me 

the,  thee 

him 

hir,  hire 

hit,  it 

Plural. 

Nom. 

Gen. 

Acc. 

we 

our,  oure 

11S 

ye 

youre,  your 
you 

the,  they 

here 

hem. 

6.  Final  e (with  us  totally  inoperative  upon  the  syllabication) 
is  usually  pronounced, — silent  before  h or  a vowel;  as  Aprille , 

■sicoote. 

Chaucer’s  position,  so  far  as  we  know,  has  no  parallel  in  liter- 
ary history.  His  poems  are  not  in  a foreign  language  — hardly 
in  our  own.  They  present  to  the  eye  terms  that  are  familiar,  and 
terms  that  are  uncouth.  The  use  of  a glossary  is  wearisome;  the 
intermingling  of  sunshine  and  shadow,  in  which  the  reader  is  un- 
certain how  long  the  clearness  will  continue,  and  how  soon  the 
obscurity  will  recur,  is  vexatious.  He  is  the  star  of  a misty  morn- 
ing. 

Versification. — Chaucer  composed  several  pieces  in  octosyl- 
labic metre  — iambic  tetrameter;  but  by  far  the  most  considera- 
ble part  of  his  poetry  was  written  in  our  present  heroic  measure 
— iambic  pentameter  in  rhymed  couplets  or  stanzas.  In  prac- 
tice, spondees  ( - - ),  trochees  ( - w )?  and  anapaests  (%-»<-»-) 
are  often  introduced.  To  vary  the  position  of  the  accents  pre- 
vents monotony;  to  reduce  their  number , as  from  five  to  four, 
quickens  the  movement  of  the  line.  A line  may  be  catalectic  — 
wanting  a syllable;  or  hypercatalectic  — lengthened  by  a syllable 
or  even  two,  which  gives  a lifting  billowy  rhythm.  By  a little 
attention  to  the  law  of  the  verse,  the  difficulties  of  pronunciation 
will  greatly  diminish,  and  the  air  of  archaism  will  rather  enhance 
the  effect.  Thus  of  the  death  of  Arcite: 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


207 


■‘And  with  that  word  his  spech«  faite  gan; 

For  fro  his  feete  up  too  his  brest  was  come 

The  cold  of  deth  that  hadde  him  overnome  [overtaken 

And  ydt  moreover  in  his  armcs  twoo 
The  vital  strength  is  lost,  and  al  agoo. 

Only  the  intellect,  withouten  m6re, 

That  dwelled  in  his  hert<?  sik  and  sdre, 

Gan  fayle  when  the  hertfi  felte  deth.’ 

The  poet  himself  seems  anxious  that  transcribers  and  reciters 
should  not  violate  his  metre.  Thus,  gracefully  bidding  adieu  to 
a finished  poem,  he  adds: 

‘And  for  there  is  so  grete  dyversite 
In  English  and  in  writynge  of  our  tonge, 

So  preye  I God  that  non  miswrite  thee 
Ne  thee  mismetre  for  defaute  of  tonge.’ 

His  stanza  — called  rhyme  royal , from  the  circumstance  of  its 
being  used  by  a royal  follower  — was  formed  from  the  Italian 
octave  rhyme  by  the  omission  of  the  fifth  line.  It  thus  consists 
of  seven  lines,  three  on  each  side  of  a middle  one,  which  is  the 
last  of  a quatrain  of  alternate  rhymes,  and  first  of  a quatrain  of 
couplets.  Thus: 

“‘Nay,  God  forbede  a lover  shulde  chaunge!” 

The  turtel  seyde,  and  wex  for  shame  al  reed: 

“Thoogh  that  hys  lady  evermore  be  straunge, 

Yet  let  hym  serve  hir  ever,  tyl  he  be  deed. 

Forsoth,  I preyse  noght  the  gooses  reed; 

For  though  she  deyed,  I woldc  noon  other  make; 

I wol  ben  hirs  til  that  the  deth  me  take."  ’ 

It  remained  a favorite  with  English  poets  down  to  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth. 

In  rhythmic  history,  Langland  terminates  the  ancient  period, 
and  Chaucer  begins  the  modern.  The  first  presents  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  type  ^ p * \j  , but  with  the  accent  at  the  second  time- 
unit  of  the  bar  instead  of  the  first.  Thus: 


3: 

% 


0 0 1 

0 

0 

0 

i 

0 

A 

0 

0 | 

0 

0 

0 1 1 

P 

b 

P 

1 

if 

if 

p 1 

if 

In 

a som 

er 

se  - 

son 

whan  soft 

was 

the 

A 

A 

A 

0 

0 0 1 

0 

0 

0, 

0 

1 * 

0 

0 1 

0 

If 

p p ! 

if 

U 

$ 

1 * 

✓ 

✓ 

1 I 

P 

I 

shop  - e 

me  in  shroud-es 

as 

I 

a 

shep  - 

e 

if  if  V 

the  son  - ne 


0 0 

P P 

wer  - e 


The  second  presents  the  same,  with  the  last  two  of  the  eighth- 
notes  joined  together  into  a quarter-note;  as  if  in  music  we 
should  write  £ J , where  the  slur  unites  two  sounds  in  one 


208  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


precisely  equivalent  to  * . Hence  for  the  predominant  form 
3:  f f f , we  have  the  predominant  form  3:  f f . Thus: 

•8-  v v v -8-  If  1 


A 

0 0 

i 0 

A 

0 

0 

A 

0 1 

0 

A 

0 

, 

0 

A 

0 

If  1 

1 If 

I 

If 

1 1 

if 

1 

1 

Is 

| 

Whil-om 

as 

old 

e 

sto 

ries 

tell 

- 

en 

US 

A 

A 

A 

A 

A 

0 0 1 

1 0 

0 

I 0 

0 I 

0 

0 

| 

0 

0 

If 

1 If 

P 

1 1 

If 

1 

1 

If 

i 

There  was 

a 

due 

that 

hight 

e 

The 

- 

se 

■ US 

Writings. — Like  all  the  rest,  Chaucer  begins  as  a copyist, 
and,  turning*  with  greatest  sympathy  to  those  in  whom  the 
romantic  element  is  strongest,  translates  the  Homaunt  of  the 
JRose , an  allegorical  love  poem,  built  up  by  the  troubadours  into 
colossal  proportions,  one  of  the  most  famous  in  the  fashionable 
literature  of  the  time.  Under  the  figure  of  a rose  in  a delicious 
garden,  it  portrays  the  trials  of  a lover,  who  in  the  attainment  of 
his  desire,  has  to  traverse  vast  ditches,  scale  lofty  walls,  and  force 
the  gates  of  castles.  These  enchanted  fortresses  are  inhabited 
by  visible  divinities,  some  of  whom  assist  and  some  oppose.  The 
garden  itself  is  enclosed  with  embattled  masonry,  whereon  are 
the  emblematic  Hatred,  Avarice,  Envy,  Sorrow,  Old  Age,  and 
Hypocrisy.  Within  are  the  smiling  dancers,  and,  by  way  of  con- 
trast, Danger,  who  starts  suddenly  from  an  ambuscade,  and  sad 
Travail,  who  forever  mingles  with  the  merry  company.  All  this, 
as  usual,  is  seen  in  a dream,  a dream  of  May,  with  its  mantling 
green  and  gladsome  melody  of  birds: 


‘That  it  was  May  me  thoughten  tho, 

It  is  five  year  or  more  ago, 

That  it  was  May  thus  dreamed  me 
In  time  of  love  and  jollity.  . . . 

And  then  becometh  the  ground  so  proud 
That  it  woll  have  a newe  shrowd, 

And  make  so  quaint  his  robe  and  fair 
That  it  had  hews  an  hundred  pair, 

Of  grass  and  flourcs  Ind  and  Pers, 

And  many  hewes  full  diverse.  . . . 

The  birdes,  that  han  left  their  song 
While  they  had  suffered  cold  full  strong 
In  weathers  gril,  and  derk  to  sight, 

Been  in  May  for  the  sunne  bright 
So  glad,  that  they  shew  in  singing 
That  in  their  heart  is  such  liking, 

That  they  mote  singen  and  been  light.  . . '. 
Then  younge  folk  intenden  aye 


[then 


[Indian,  Persian 


[dreary 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


209 


For  to  been  gay  and  amorous, 

The  time  is  then  so  savourous. 

Hard  is  his  heart  that  loveth  nought 
In  May,  when  all  this  mirth  is  wrought, 

When  he  may  on  these  branches  hear 
The  smale  birdes  singen  clear 
Their  blissful  swete  song  pitous.’ 

Under  the  influence  of  the  prevalent  taste  for  novelty  and 
Splendor,  he  writes  the  House  of  Fame , known  to  modern  read- 
ers chiefly  through  Pope’s  paraphrase,  bearing  the  statelier  title 
of  the  ‘Temple  of  Fame.’  Chaucer  is  transported  in  a dream  to 
the  Temple  of  Venus,  which  is  of  glass,  in  a wide  waste  of  sand, 
and  on  whose  walls  are  figured  in  gold  all  the  legends  of  Virgil 
and  Ovid.  Dante’s  eagle,  glittering  like  a carbuncle,  looks  on 
him  from  the  sun: 

‘That  faste  by  the  sonne,  as  hye 
As  kenne  myght  I with  myn  eye. 

Me  thought  I sawgh  an  cgle  sore, 

But  that  hit  semede  moche  more 
Then  I had  any  egle  seyne.  . . . 

Hit  was  of  golde  and  shone  so  bryght, 

That  never  sawgh  man  such  a syght 

Suddenly  the  eagle  descends  with  lightning  wing,  and,  bearing 
him  aloft  in  his  talons  above  the  stars,  drops  him  at  last  before 
the  House  of  Fame,  built  of  polished  beryl,  and  standing  on  a 
rock  of  almost  inaccessible  ice.  All  the  southern  side  is  covered 
with  the  names  of  famous  men  — perpetually  melting  away! 
The  northern  side  is  alike  graven,  but  the  names,  here  shaded, 
remain.  All  around,  on  the  turrets,  are  the  minstrels,  with 
Orpheus,  Arion,  and  the  renowned  harpers.  Behind  them  are 
myriad  musicians,  then  charmers,  magicians,  and  prophets.  He 
enters,  and  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  paved  and  roofed  with 
gold,  and  embossed  with  gems,  sees  Fame  seated  on  a throne  of 
carbuncle,  a ‘gret  and  noble  quene,’  amidst  an  infinite  number  of 
heralds,  robed  nobles,  and  crowned  heads.  From  her  throne  to 
the  gate  stretches  a row  of  pillars,  on  which  stand  the  great  his- 
torians and  poets.  The  palace  rings  with  the  sounds  of  instru- 
ments, and  the  celestial  melody  of  Calliope  and  her  seven  sisters, 
in  eternal  praise  of  the  goddess.  People  of  every  nation  and 
condition  crowd  the  hall  to  present  their  claims.  Some  ask  fame 
for  their  good  works,  and  are  denied  good  or  bad  fame.  Others 
who  merit  well,  are  trumpeted  by  Slander.  A few  obtain  their 
just  reward.  Some,  who  have  done  nobly,  desire  their  good  works 


210  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


to  be  hidden,  and  their  request  is  granted.  Others  make  request, 
and  their  deeds  are  trumpeted  through  clarion  of  gold.  Chaucer 
himself  refuses  to  be  a petitioner.  Enough  that  he  best  knows 
what  he  has  suffered,  and  what  thought.  He  is  then  carried  by 
the  eagle  to  the  House  of  Rumor,  sixty  miles  long  and  perpetually 
whirling.  Made  of  twigs  like  a cage,  it  admits  every  sound.  Its 
doors,  more  numerous  than  forest  leaves,  stand  ever  ajar.  Thence 
issue  tidings  of  every  description,  like  fountains  and  rivers  from 
the  sea,  flying  first  to  Fame,  who  gives  them  name  and  duration. 
Would  you  know  how  the  waves  of  air  perambulate  the  oceans  of 
space  — how  the  lightest  word  speeds  unerringly  to  its  destina- 
tion, and  mayhap  in  the  Hereafter  will  vibrate  still  in  the  speak- 
er’s ear  — how  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  may  be  the  ever-living 
witness  of  the  sentiments  we  have  uttered  ? Listen : 

‘Sound  is  naught  but  air  that's  broken, 

And  every  speeche  that  is  spoken, 

Whe'er  loud  or  low,  foul  or  fair, 

In  his  substance  is  but  air: 

For  as  flame  is  but  lighted  smoke, 

Right  so  is  sound  but  air  that's  broke.  . . . 

Now,  henceforth,  I will  thee  teach 
However,  speeche,  voice  or  sown, 

Through  his  multiplicion, 

Though  it  were  piped  of  a mouse, 

Must  needs  come  to  Fame’s  House. 

I prove  it  thus;  taketh  heed  now 
By  experience,  for  if  that  thou 
Throw  in  a water  now  a stone, 

Well  wot'st  thou  it  will  make  anon 
A little  roundel  as  a circle, 

Par  venture  as  broad  as  a covercle, 

And  right  anon  thou  shalt  see  well 
That  circle  cause  another  wheel, 

And  that  the  third,  and  so  forth,  brother, 

Every  circle  causing  other, 

Much  broader  than  himselfen  was: 

Right  so  of  air,  my  leve  brother, 

Ever  each  air  another  stirreth 

More  and  more,  and  speech  upbeareth, 

Till  it  be  at  the  House  of  Fame.’ 

The  occupants  of  this  house  — chiefly  sailors,  pilgrims,  and  par- 
doners— are  continually  employed  in  hearing  or  telling  news, 
inventing  and  circulating  reports  and  lies.  In  one  corner,  the 
poet  sees  a throng  of  eager  listeners  around  a narrator  of  love- 
stories.  The  uproar  about  this  shadow  of  himself  wakes  him 
from  his  dream. 

Grand  suggestiveness  here,  true  strokes  of  the  Gothic  imagi- 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


211 


nation.  Pass  away  the  highest  things  ! There  are  no  eternal 
corner-stones.  All  things  that  have  been  in  this  place  of  hope, 
all  that  are  or  will  be  in  it,  earth’s  wonder  and  her  pride,  have 
to  vanish, — rising  only  to  melt  in  air  and  be  no  more  ! 

Amid  all  this  exuberancy,  love  is  the  sovereign  passion.  As. 
we  have  seen,  it  has  the  force  of  law.  It  is  inscribed  in  a code,, 
combined  with  religion,  confounding  morality  with  pleasure,  dis- 
playing the  fatal  excess  and  pedantry  of  the  age.  From  his 
sojourn  beneath  Italian  skies,  Chaucer  returns  with  his  Northern 
brain  powerfully  stimulated,  and,  with  close  attention  to  his  origi- 
nals, writes  the  story  of  Troilus  and  Creseide , in  which  the  well- 
loved visions  wear  a more  tangible  form,  and  mingle  in  a more 
consecutive  history,  than  in  the  hazy  distance  of  allegory.  It  is 
a tale  of  Troy  told  in  the  Middle  Ages.  A Trojan  seer,  warned 
by  Apollo  that  Troy  must  fall,  deserts  to  the  Greeks,  leaving  be- 
hind him  in  the  beleaguered  city  his  beautiful  daughter  Creseide, 
overwhelmed  with  grief  at  her  father’s  treachery.  Troi'lus,  valor- 
ous brother  of  Hector,  sees  her  in  the  temple,  clad  in  mourning, 
and  loves: 

‘And  when  that  he  in  cliaumber  was  allon, 

He  down  upon  his  beddes  feet  him  sette, 

And  thought  ay  on  hire  so,  withouten  lette  [ceasing 

That  as  he  satt  and  woke,  his  spirit  mette  [fancied 

That  he  hire  saugh,  and  temple,  and  al  the  wyse  [manner 

Right  of  hire  loke,  and  gan  it  new  avise.’  [consider 

Like  Dante,  he  is  reticent,  would  languish  and  die  in  silence  but 
for  Pandarus,  her  uncle,  who  persuades  him  to  disclose  the  name 
of  his  love  and  promises  to  forward  his  suit.  Troi'lus  is  born 
anew  — an  invincible  knight,  yet  gentle,  generous,  and  sincere; 
his  cruelty,  his  levity,  his  haughty  carriage,  all  gone;  of  so  gentle 
manner, — 

‘That  each  him  loved  that  looked  in  his  face.’ 

Pandarus  seeks  his  niece,  with  the  comforting  adieu, — 

‘Give  me  this  labour  and  this  business, 

And  of  my  speed  be  thine  all  the  sweetness.’ 

He  prevails  upon  her  to  pity  his  friend,  takes  his  leave  ‘glad  and 
well  begone.’  As  she  sits  alone  in  troubled  meditation,  a shout 
in  the  street  proclaims  the  victorious  advance  of  Troi'lus,  who, 
omnipotent  in  hope,  has  put  the  Greeks  to  flight,  and  comes 
a conquering  hero.  She  sees  his  triumph,  marks  his  modest 
demeanor, — 


212  INITIATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS, 


‘ And  let  it  in  her  heart  so  softly  sink 
That  to  herself  she  said,  “Ho!  give  me  drink.”  ’ 


She  blushes,  drops  her  head,  thinks  of  his  prowess,  his  estate,  his 
fame, — above  all,  of  his  distress;  almost  decides  that  she  will 
love,  then  thinks  of  the  woes  of  love: 


Troi’lus,  in  wasting  suspense,  asks  his  friend,  just  returned, 
‘ Shall  I weep  or  sing  ? ’ Assured  of  her  friendly  regard,  he  fears 
his  heart  will  leap  forth,  ‘it  spreadeth  so  for  joy 


‘But,  Lord,  how  shall  I doen?  how  shall  I liven? 

When  shall  I next  my  own  dear  heart  ysee? 

How  shall  this  longe  time  away  he  driven 
Till  that  thou  be  again  at  her  from  me? 

Thou  may’st  answer,  “Abide,  abide”;  but  he 
That  hangeth  by  the  neck,  the  soth  to  sain, 

In  great  disease  abideth  for  the  pain.’  [discomfort 


In  answer,  Pandarus  recommends  him  to  write  a letter,  and  fur- 
thermore, to  ride,  as  it  were  accidentally,  by  her  house,  when  he 
will  take  care  that  she  shall  be  at  the  window  engaged  in  conver- 
sation with  himself, — the  subject  the  man  whom  he  desires  to 
serve.  When  the  letter  is  brought,  she  is  ashamed  to  open  it, 
and  consents  only  when  told  the  poor  knight  is  about  to  die. 
When  asked  how  she  likes  it,  ‘all  rosy  hued  then  waxeth  she’; 
refuses,  however,  to  answer  it,  but  yields  at  length  to  the  impor- 
tunities of  her  uncle,  and  writes  that  she  will  feel  for  him  the 
affection  of  a sister: 


‘She  thanked  him  of  all  that  he  well  meant 
Towardes  her,  but  holden  him  in  hand 
She  woulde  not,  no  maken  herself  bond 
In  love,  but  as  his  sister  him  to  please. 

She  would  aye  fain  to  do  his  heart  an  ease.’ 


When  the  messenger  arrives,  Troilus  trembles,  pales,  doubts  his 
happiness.  All  night  long  he  ponders  how  he  may  best  merit  her 
favor.  Slowly,  after  many  heart-aches,  and  much  stratagem  on 
the  part  of  Pandarus,  he  obtains  her  delicate  confession: 


‘For  love  is  yet  the  moste  stormy  life 
Right  of  himself  that  ever  was  begun, 

For  ever  some  mistrust  or  nice  strife 
There  is  in  love  some  cloud  over  the  sun; 
Thereto  we  wretched  women  nothing  conne, 
When  us  is  woe,  but  weep,  and  sit,  and  think: 
Our  wreak  is  this,  our  owne  woe  to  drink.’ 


[revenge 


[foolish 


[can  do 


* And  as  the  new  abashed  nightingale. 

That  stinteth  first,  when  she  beginneth  sing, 
When  that  she  heareth  any  herdes  tale, 


[shepherd's  call 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


213 


Or  in  the  hedges  any  wight  stirring; 

And  after,  siker  doth  her  voice  out  ring; — \ynore  boldly 

Right  so  Creseid',  when  that  her  dread  stent,  [ceased 

Opened  her  heart,  and  told  him  her  intent.’ 

Of  their  delight,  judge  ‘ye  that  have  been  at  the  feast  of  such 
gladness  ! ’ They  exchange  rings,  and  part,  vowing  eternal  con- 
stancy. As  to  him, — 

‘In  alle  nedes  for  the  townes  war 
He  was,  and  aye  the  first  in  armes  dight, 

And  certainly,  but  if  that  bookes  err, 

Save  Hector  most  idread  of  any  wight; 

And  this  encrease  of  hardiness  and  might 
Come  him  of  love  his  lady’s  thank  to  win, 

That  altered  his  spirit  so  within.’ 

All  day  long  she  sings: 

‘ Whom  should  I thanken  but  you,  god  of  love, 

Of  all  this  blisse,  in  which  to  bathe  I ginne? 

And  thanked  be  ye,  lorde,  for  that  I love, 

This  is  the  right  life  that  I am  inne. 

To  fleinen  all  maner  vice  and  sinne: 

This  doth  me  so  to  vertne  for  to  entende 
That  daie  by  daie  I in  my  will  amende. 

And  who  that  saieth  that  for  to  love  is  vice,  . . . 

He  either  is  envious,  or  right  nice, 

Or  is  unmightie  for  his  shrudnesse 
To  loven.  . . . 

But  I with  all  mine  herte  and  all  my  might, 

As  I have  saied,  woll  love  unto  my  last, 

My  owne  dere  herte,  and  all  mine  owue  knight, 

In  whiche  mine  herte  growen  is  so  fast. 

And  his  in  me,  that  it  shall  ever  last.’ 

‘But  all  too  little,  welaway  ! lasteth  such  joy.’  A truce  between 
the  two  armies  is  struck.  Her  father  Calchas  reclaims  her.  Told 
that  she  is  to  be  exchanged  for  a prisoner,  she  swoons,  and  Troi- 
lus,  thinking  her  dead,  cries: 

‘O  cruel  Jove!  and  thou  Fortune  adverse! 

This  all  and  some  is,  falsely  have  ye  slain 
Creseid’,  and  sith  ye  may  do  me  no  worse, 

Fie  on  your  might  and  workes  so  diverse ! 

Thus  cowardly  ye  shall  me  never  win; 

There  shall  no  death  me  from  my  lady  twin.’  [ separate 

Love  sports  with  death  when  it  makes  the  whole  of  life.  With 
his  sword  unsheathed,  he  calls  upon  the  loved  and  lost  to  receive 
his  spirit: 

‘But  as  God  would,  of  swoon  she  then  abraid,  [ awaked 

And  gan  to  sigh,  and  “ Troilus ! ” she  cried ; 

And  he  answered;  “Lady  mine,  Creseid’! 

Liven  ye  yet?”  and  let  his  sword  down  glide. 

“Yea,  hearte  mine!  that  thanked  be  Cupid,” 


[clad 


[reward 


[banish 


214 


INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


(Quod  she)  and  therewithal  she  sore  sight,  [ sighed 

And  he  began  to  glad  her  as  he  might; 

Took  her  in  armes  two,  and  kiss’d  her  oft, 

And  her  to  glad  he  did  all  his  intent, 

For  which  her  ghost,  that  flickered  aye  aloft, 

Into  her  woful  heart  again  it  went; 

But  at  the  last,  as  that  her  even  glent  [ glanced 

Aside,  anon  she  'gan  his  sword  espy 
As  it  lay  bare,  and  ’gan  for  fear  to  cry. 

And  asked  him  why  he  had  it  out  draw? 

And  Tro'ilus  anon  the  cause  her  told, 

And  how  himself  therewith  he  would  have  slaw;  [ slain 

For  which  Creseid’  upon  him  ’gan  behold, 

And  ’gan  him  in  her  armes  fast  to  fold, 

And  said;  “O  mercy,  God!  lo  which  a deed! 

Alas ! how  nigh  we  weren  bothe  dead ! ” ’ 

Separated  at  last,  he  despairs,  hears  the  4 bird  of  night  ’ shriek, 
arranges  for  his  sepulture,  bequeaths  to  his  lady  the  ashes  of  his 
heart  in  a golden  urn;  is  exhorted  to  calm  himself,  bidden  remem- 
ber that  he  is  a knight,  that  others  — the  wisest  and  best  — have 
been  separated  from  their  lovers,  and  are  so  every  day,  even  for- 
ever ; goes  reluctantly  with  Pandarus  to  a royal  banquet,  to 
forget  his  sorrow,  but  amid  the  revelry  of  beauty,  wit,  and  wealth, 
sees  and  hears  only  the  absent : 

‘On  her  was  ever  all  that  his  heart  thought, 

Now  this  now  that  so  fast  imagining 
That  gladden,  iwis,  can  him  no  feasting.’ 

Alone  he  murmurs: 

‘Who  seeth  you  now,  my  right  lodestar? 

Who  sitteth  now  or  stant  in  your  presence? 

Who  can  comforten  now  your  heartes  war, 

Now  I am  gone?  whom  give  ye  audience? 

Who  speaketh  for  me  now  in  my  absence? 

Alas!  no  wight,  and  that  is  all  my  care, 

For  well  wote  I,  as  ill  as  I ye  fare.  . . . 

O lovesome  lady  bright! 

How  have  ye  fared  since  that  ye  were  there? 

Welcome  iwis,  mine  owne  lady  dear!  . . . 

Every  thing  came  him  to  remembrance 
As  he  rode  forth  by  places  of  the  town 
In  whifch  he  whilome  had  all  his  pleasance; 

Lo!  yonder  saw  I mine  own  lady  dance, 

And  in  that  temple  with  her  eyen  clear 
Me  captive  caught  first  my  right  lady  dear: 

And  yonder  have  I heard  full  lustily 
My  dear  heart  Creseid’  laugh,  and  yonder  play 
Saw  I her  ones  eke  full  blissfully. 

And  yonder  ones  to  me  ’gan  she  say, 

“Now,  goode  sweet!  loveth  me  well  I pray”; 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


215 


Ancl  yond  so  goodly  ’gan  she  me  behold 
That  to  the  death  my  heart  is  to  her  hold: 

And  at  the  corner  in  the  yonder  house 

Heard  I mine  alderlevest  lady  dear  [ sweetest 

So  womanly  with  voice  melodious 
Singen  so  well,  so  goodly  and  so  clear, 

That  in  my  soule  yet  me  think’th  I hear 
The  blissful  sound,  and  in  that  yonder  place 
My  lady  first  me  took  unto  her  grace.’ 

She  — with  what  words  and  what  tears! — has  prayed  that  body 
and  soul  might  sink  into  the  bottomless  pit  ere  she  prove  false  to 
Troilus,  and  has  pledged  that  in  ten  days  she  will  come  back. 
But  Fortune  seems  truest  when  she  will  beguile  : 

‘From  Troilus  she  ’gan  her  brighte  face 
Away  to  writhe,  and  took  of  him  no  heed, 

And  cast  him  clean  out  of  his  lady’s  grace 
And  on  her  wheel  she  set  up  Diomed.’ 

Creseide  through  sheer  weakness  yields  to  the  pleading  of  Dio- 
mede. In  vain  Troilus  appeals  to  her  in  the  tenderest  of  letters, 
and  bewails  his  woe  in  endless  rhymes.  He  accepts  the  inevitable 
then,  in  a last  piteous  reproach: 

‘O  lady  mine,  Creseid’! 

Where  is  your  faith,  and  where  is  your  behest? 

Where  is  your  love?  where  is  your  truth?’ 

There  is  nothing  left.  Light  and  life  are  stricken  from  the  world  : 

‘And  certainly,  withouten  more  speech. 

From  hennes  forth,  as  farforth  as  I may, 

Mine  owne  death  in  armes  will  I seech, 

I ne  recke  not  how  soone  be  the  day; 

But  truely,  Creseide,  sweete  May! 

Whom  I have  aye  with  all  my  might  iserved, 

That  ye  thus  done  I have  it  not  deserved.’ 

Courting  death,  he  throws  himself  upon  the  Greeks,  thousands  of 
whom  perish;  seeks  Diomede  everywhere,  wounds  him,  but  is 
himself  slain  by  the  spear  of  the  invincible  Achilles.  Borne  up 
to  the  seventh  sphere,  he  looks  compassionately  down  upon  this 
little  spot  of  earth,  and  esteems  it  vanity.  Wherefore, — 

‘O  young  and  freshe  folkes,  he  or  she! 

In  which  that  love  up  groweth  with  your  age, 

Repaireth  home  from  worldly  vanity. 

And  of  your  hearts  up  casteth  the  visage 

To  thilke  God  that  after  his  image 

You  made,  and  thinketh  all  n’is  but  a fair, 

This  world  that  passeth  soon,  as  flow’res  fair.’ 

There  is  improvement  here.  The  worldly  view  tempers  the 
sentimental  element.  Chaucer,  still  in  sympathy  with  the  de- 


216  INITIATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


mand  of  the  age  for  excessive  sensation,  is  growing  into  man- 
hood, and  winning  liberty.  His  joy  in  the  poetry  of  others  gives 
way  to  his  desire  to  render  it  purer,  simpler,  more  beautiful,  and 
more  true.  As  knowledge  and  learning  increase,  these  fantastic 
beings,  these  exquisite  refinements,  which  make  the  evening 
hours  of  the  lord  flow  sweetly,  give  way  to  real  manners  and 
living  characters. 

The  popular  excursion  of  the  day  is  the  pilgrimage,  and  the 
most  famous  is  that  to  the  shrine  of  the  martyred  Becket1  at 
Canterbury.  Persons  of  every  condition  meet  in  the  month  of 
April  and  travel  together,  starting  from  a London  Inn.  Social 
distinctions  are  for  the  time  disregarded,  partly  from  the  religious 
sense,  of  which  the  occasion  is  suggestive,  that  all  men  are  equal 
before  God;  but  chiefly  from  the  common  disposition  of  chance 
companions  to  put  off  restraint,  and  relieve,  by  friendly  inter- 
change, the  tediousness  of  solitary  and  dangerous  travel.  The 
occasion  is  not  too  solemn  for  mirth,  even  coarse  and  vigorous; 
for  since  the  Devil  is  thwarted  by  the  object  of  the  mission,  it  is 
not  at  all  necessary  to  maintain  any  strictness  by  the  wayside. 
Chaucer  seizes  upon  this  custom  as  the  frame  in  which  to  set  his 
immortal  pictures  of  life  — the  Canterbury  Tales.  Bound  for  the 
tomb  of  the  illustrious  saint,  he  joins  at  the  ‘Tabard’  a troop  of 
pilgrims,  twenty-nine  in  number.  They  set  out  in  early  morning, 
accompanied  by  the  merry  host,  who  is  the  presiding  spirit  of  the 
party.  To  beguile  the  plodding  ride  through  the  miry  highways, 
it  is  agreed  that  each  shall  tell  at  least  one  story  on  the  journey 
and  another  on  the  return, — 

‘For  trewely  comfort  nc  mirthe  is  none 
To  riden  by  the  way  domb  as  the  stone.’ 

All  the  great  classes  of  English  humanity  are  represented, — a 
knight,  a lawyer,  a doctor,  an  Oxford  student,  a miller,  a prioress, 
a monk,  carpenters,  farmers, — all  in  hearty  human  fellowship. 
The  stories  related  are  as  various  as  the  characters  of  the  narra- 
tors, and  comprehend  the  whole  range  of  middle-age  poetry, — 
chivalric,  vulgar,  grave,  gay,  pathetic,  humorous,  moral,  and 
licentious. 

The  knight,  bronzed  by  the  Syrian  sun,  leads  us  among  arms, 
palaces,  temples,  tournaments,  and  glittering  barbaric  kings. 

J The  Saxon  archbishop,  murdered,  it  will  be  remembered,  by  the  minions  of  Henry  II. 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


217 


Palamon  and  Arcite,  the  heroes  of  the  story,  are  lovers  of  the 
fair  Emily,  and  in  a forest  solitude  fight  in  deadly  combat: 

‘The  brighte  swordes  vventen  to  and  fro 
So  hideously  that  with  the  leaste  stroke 
It  seemed  that  it  woulde  fell  an  oak.’ 

But  the  king,  whose  delight  is  the  chase,  accidentally  discovers 
them, — 

‘And  at  a start,  he  was  betwixt  them  two, 

And  pulled  out  a sword  and  cried,— “ Ho ! ” ’ 

He  orders  that  fifty  weeks  hence  each  shall  bring  a hundred 
knights  to  contest  his  claim  — Emily  to  wed  the  victor: 

‘Who  looketh  lightly  now  but  Palamon? 

Who  springeth  up  for  joye  but  Arcite? 

Who  could  it  tell,  or  who  could  it  indite. 

The  joye  that  it  maked  in  the  place 
When  Theseus  hath  done  so  fair  a grace?’ 


He  prepares  at  fabulous  expense  a magnificent  theatre,  a mile  in 
circuit,  walled  with  stone,  graduated  sixty  paces  high,  adorned 
with  altars  and  oratories  of  alabaster,  gold,  and  coral.  Wrought 
on  the  wall  of  the  temple  of  Venus,  ‘full  piteous  to  behold,’ are  — 

‘The  broken  sleepes,  and  the  sikes  cold  [szr/Ai? 

The  sacred  teares,  and  the  waimentings,  [ lamentations 

The  fiery  strokes  of  the  desirings, 

That  Loves  servants  in  this  life  enduren, 

The  oathes  that  their  covenants  assuren.’ 


Within  the  fane  of  mighty  Mars, — 


‘First  on  the  wall  was  painted  a forest, 

In  which  there  wonneth  neither  man  nor  beast, 
With  knotty  gnarry  barren  trees  old 
Of  stubbes  sharp  and  hidous  to  behold. 

In  which  there  ran  a rumble  and  a swough, 

As  though  a storm  should  bursten  every  bough; 
And  downward  from  a hill  under  a bent 
There  stood  the  Tempi’  of  Mars  Armipotent, 
Wrought  all  of  burned  steel,  of  which  th’  entree 
Was  long  and  strait,  and  ghastly  for  to  see; 

And  thereout  came  a rage  and  such  a vise 
That  it  made  all  the  gates  for  to  rise. 

The  northern  light  in  at  the  doore  shone. 

For  window  on  the  wall  ne  was  there  none 
Through  which  men  mighten  any  light  discern; 
The  door  was  all  of  adamant  etern, 

Yclenched  overthwart  and  endelong 
With  iron  tough,  and  for  to  make  it  strong, 
Every  pillar  the  temple  to  sustain 
Was  tonne -great,  of  iron  bright  and  sheen.’ 


[ dwelleth 

[ swooning  noise 
[i declivity 
[i burnished 
[ rush 


[, shining 


218  INITIATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Within  the  gloomy  sanctuary, — 


‘There  saw  I first  the  dark  imagining 
Of  Felony,  and  all  the  compassing; 

The  cruel  ire,  red  as  any  glede. 

The  pickpurse,  and  eke  the  pale  drede 
The  smiler  with  the  knife  under  the  cloak; 
The  shepen  burning  with  the  black  smoke; 
The  treason  of  the  murdering  in  the  bed; 

The  open  war,  with  woundes  all  bebled; 
Conteke  with  bloody  knife  and  sharp  menace: 
All  full  of  chirking  was  that  sorry  place. 

The  slayer  of  himself  yet  saw  I there, 

His  hearte's  blood  hath  bathed  all  his  hair; 
The  nail  ydriven  in  the  shode  on  height; 

The  colde  death,  with  mouth  gaping  upright.’ 


[hair  on  the  head 


[strife 
[hateful  sound 


[burning  coal 
[fear 


[stable 


Here, — 


‘ The  statue  of  Mars  upon  a carte  stood 
Armed,  and  looked  grim  as  he  were  wood,  . . 
A wolf  there  stood  before  him  at  his  feet 
With  eyen  red,  and  of  a man  he  eat.’ 


[mad 


Now  the  train  of  combatants  who  come  to  joust  in  the  tilting 


‘There  mayst  thou  see  coming  with  Palamon 
Licurge  himself,  the  greate  King  of  Thrace; 

Black  was  his  beard,  and  manly  was  his  face 
The  circles  of  his  eyen  in  his  head 
They  gloweden  betwixen  yellow  and  red. 

And  like  a griffon  looked  he  about, 

With  combed  haires  on  his  browes  stout; 

His  limbcs  great,  his  brawnes  hard  and  strong, 

His  shoulders  broad,  his  armes  round  and  long; 

And  as  the  guise  was  in  his  countree, 

Full  high  upon  a car  of  gold  stood  he, 

With  foure  white  bulles  in  the  trace.  . . . 

A hundred  lordes  had  he  in  his  rout 
Armed  full  well,  with  heartes  stern  and  stout. 

With  Arcita,  in  stories  as  men  find, 

The  great  Emetrius  the  King  of  Ind, 

Upon  a steede  bay,  trapped  in  steel, 

Covered  with  cloth  of  gold  diapred  wele, 

Came  riding  like  the  god  of  Armes,  Mars; 

His  coat  armour  was  of  a cloth  of  Tars,  [a  silk 

Couched  with,pearles  white,  and  round,  and  great;  [trimmed 

His  saddle  was  of  burnt  gold  new  ybeat;  [beaten 

A mantelet  upon  his  shoulders  hanging 

Bret-ful  of  rubies  red,  as  fire  sparkling;  [brimfull 

His  crispe  hair  like  ringes  was  yrun, 

And  that  was  yellow,  and  glittered  as  the  sun;  . . . 

His  voice  was  as  a trumpe  thundering; 

Upon  his  head  he  wear'd  of  laurel  green, 

A garland  fresh  and  lusty  for  to  seen;  [pleasant 

Upon  his  hand  he  bare  for  his  deduit  [amusement 

An  eagle  tame,  as  any  lily  white: 

A hundred  lordes  had  he  with  him  there, 

All  armed,  save  their  heads,  in  all  their  gear.  . . . 


field: 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


219 


About  this  king  there  ran  on  every  part 
Full  many  a tame  lion  and  leopart.1 

Such  is  the  gorgeous  imagery,  contrasted  and  varied,  by  which 
Chaucer  belongs  to  the  romantic  age  and  school.  He  belongs  to 
it  as  well  by  his  amorous  discussions,  his  broad  jokes,  his  indeli- 
cate particulars.  Alisoun,  one  of  the  pilgrims,  a wife  of  Bath, 
five  husbands  — saw  the  fifth  at  the  burial  of  the 

‘And  Jankin  oure  clerk  was  on  of  tho: 

As  helpe  me  God,  whan  that  I saw  him  go 
Aftir  the  here,  me  thought  he  had  a paire 
Of  legges  and  of  feet,  so  clene  and  faire 
That  all  my  herte  I yave  unto  his  hold. 

He  was,  I trow,  a twenty  winter  old, 

And  I was  fourty,  if  I shal  say  soth  . . . 

As  helpe  me  God,  I was  a lusty  on, 

And  faire,  and  riche,  and  yonge,  and  well  begon.’ 

She  subdues  her  husband  by  the  continuity  of  her  tempest: 

‘And  whan  that  I had  getten  unto  me 
By  maistrie  all  the  soverainetee, 

And  that  he  sayd,  min  owen  trewe  wif, 

Do  as  the  list,  the  terme  of  all  thy  lif, 

Kepe  thin  honour,  and  kepe  eke  min  estat; 

After  that  day  we  never  had  debat.1 

In  acquiring  the  art  of  taming  her  husbands,  she  has  learned  the 
art  of  arguing,  and  can  pile  up  reasons  beyond  a Lapland  winter, 
to  justify  her  practice  : 

‘God  bad  us  for  to  wex  and  multiplie; 

That  gentil  text  can  I wel  understand; 

Eke  wel  I wot,  he  sayd,  that  min  husbond 
Shuld  leve  fader  and  moder,  and  take  to  me; 

But  of  no  noumbre  mention  made  he, 

Of  bigamie  or  of  octogamie; 

Why  shuld  men  than  speke  of  it  vilanie? 

Lo  here  the  wise  king  Dan  Solomon, 

I trow  he  hadde  wives  mo  than  on,  . . . 

"Which  a gift  of  God  had  he  for  alle  his  wives?  . . . 

Blessed  be  God  that  I have  wedded  five. 

Welcome  the  sixthe  whan  that  ever  he  shall.1 

The  religious  mendicant  is  a jolly  hypocrite,  ‘a  wanton  and  a 
merry’: 

‘Full  well  beloved  and  familier  was  he 
With  franklins  over  all,  in  his  countree, 

And  eke  with  worthy  women  of  the  town.  . . . 

Full  sweetely  heard  he  confession, 

And  pleasant  was  his  absolution. 

He  was  an  easy  man  to  give  pennance 
There  as  he  wist  to  have  a good  pittance;  . . . 

Therefore  instead  of  weeping  and  prayers, 

Men  must  give  silver  to  the  poore  friars.  . . . 


has  buried 
fourth!  — 


220  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


His  tippet  was  ay  farced  full  of  knives  [stuffed 

And  pins  for  to  given  faire  wives: 

And  certainly  he  had  a merry  note ; 

Well  could  he  sing  and  playen  on  a rote.  . . . 

And  over  all,  there  as  profit  should  arise, 

Courteous  he  was,  and  lowly  of  service: 

There  n’as  no  man  no  where  so  virtuous;  [ was  not 

He  was  the  beste  beggar  in  all  his  house.  . . . 

For  though  a widow  hadde  but  a shoe, 

(So  pleasant  was  his  “ In  Principio  ”) 

Yet  would  he  have  a farthing  ere  he  went.’ 

Wallet  in  hand, — 

‘ In  every  lions  he  gan  to  pore  and  prie, 

And  begged  mele  and  chese,  or  elles  corn.  . . . 

“Yeve  us  a bushel  whete,  or  malt,  or  reye, 

A Goddes  kichel,  or  a trippe  of  chese, 

Or  elles  what  you  list,  we  may  not  chese; 

A Goddes  halfpeny,  or  a masse  peny; 

Or  yeve  us  of  your  braun,  if  ye  have  any, 

A dagon  of  your  blanket,  leve  dame, 

Our  suster  derc,  (lo  here  I write  your  name).”  . . . 

And  whan  that  he  was  out  at  dore  anon, 

He  planed  away  the  names  everich  on.’ 

In  the  course  of  his  tour,  he  finds  one  of  his  most  liberal  clients 
ill,  in  bed,  who  has  given  half  his  fortune,  and  still  suffers; 
assures  him  that  he  has  said  4 many  a precious  orison  ’ for  his 
salvation,  then  inquires  for  the  dame,  who  enters: 

‘This  frere  arisetli  up  ful  curtisly, 

And  hire  embraceth  in  his  armes  narwe, 

And  kisseth  hire  swete  and  chirketh  as  a sparwe.’ 

Then: 

‘Thanked  be  God  that  you  yaf  soule  and  lif, 

Yet  saw  I not  this  tlay  so  faire  a wif 
In  all  the  chirche,  God  so  save  me.’ 

Or  again,  the  summoner,  rallied  by  the  friar,  retorts  in  good 
humor: 

‘This  Frere  bosteth  that  he  knoweth  helle, 

And,  God  it  wot,  that  is  but  litel  wonder, 

Freres  and  fendes  ben  but  litel  asonder. 

For  parde,  ye  han  often  time  herd  telle 
How  that  a Frere  ravished  was  to  helle 
In  spirit  ones  by  a visioun, 

And  as  an  angel  lad  him  up  and  doun, 

To  shewen  him  the  peines  that  ther  were  . . . 

And  er  than  half  a furlong  way  of  space. 

Right  so  as  bees  out  swarmen  of  an  hive, 

Out  of  the  devils  . . . ther  gonnen  to  drive, 

A twenty  thousand  Freres  on  a route, 

And  thurghout  hell  they  swarmed  al  aboute, 

And  com  agen,  as  fast  as  they  may  gon.’ 

If  such  characters  and  sentiments  show  that  Chaucer,  like 
every  writer,  bears  on  his  forehead  the  traces  of  his  origin,  there 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


221 


are  others  which  carry  him  beyond  it,  and  give  him  affinity  with 
the  latest  and  highest.  There  is  the  Oxford  clerk,  silent  or 
sententious,  poor,  learned,  and  thin  by  dint  of  hard  study,  riding 
on  a horse  lean  as  a rake: 

‘He  rather  have  at  his  bed’s  head 
Twenty  bookes  clothed  in  black  or  red 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophy. 

Than  robes  rich  or  fiddle  or  psaltry: 

But  all  be  that  he  was  a philosopher 
Yet  hadde  he  but  little  gold  in  coffer, 

But  all  that  he  might  of  his  friendes  hent, 

On  bookes  and  on  learning  he  it  spent,  . . . 

Of  study  took  he  moste  cure  and  heed; 

Not  a word  spoke  he  more  than  was  need  . . . 

Sounding  in  moral  virtue  was  his  speech, 

And  gladly  would  he  learn  and  gladly  teach.’ 

Or  the  young  squire: 

‘With  lockes  curl’d  as  they  were  laid  in  press; 

Of  twenty  years  of  age  he  was  I guess.  . . . 

Embroider’d  was  he,  as  it  were  a mead 
All  full  of  freshe  floweres  white  and  red: 

Sipging  he  was  or  floyting  all  the  day; 

He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May; 

Short  was  his  gown,  with  sleeves  long  and  wide; 

Well  could  he  sit  on  horse,  and  faire  ride: 

He  coulde  songes  make,  and  well  endite. 

Joust  and  eke  dance,  and  well  pourtray  and  write: 

So  hot  he  loved,  that  by  nightertale 
He  slept  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale: 

Courteous  he  was,  lowly  and  serviceable, 

And  carv’d  before  his  father  at  the  table.’ 

And  his  father  the  knight,  brave  but  gentle: 

‘That  from  the  time  that  he  first  began 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalry, 

Truth  and  honour,  freedom  and  courtesy. 

Full  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  war,  . . . 

And  ever  honour'd  for  his  worthiness.  . . . 

And  though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise, 

And  of  his  porte  as  meek  as  is  a maid. 

He  never  yet  no  villainy  ne  said 
In  all  his  life  unto  no  manner  wight: 

He  was  a very  perfect  gentle  knight.’ 

When  Arcite,  flushed  with  the  victory  that  awards  him  Emily,  is 
mortally  hurt  by  a plunge  of  his  steed,  he  calls  to  his  bed-side 
the  maiden  and  his  rival  ‘that  was  his  cousin  dear,’  bequeaths  to 
her  the  service  of  his  disrobed  spirit,  and  asks  her  to  forget  not 
Palamon  if  ‘ever  ye  shall  be  a wife,’ — all  his  resentment  gone, 
only  his  idolatry  left,  which  surges  over  him  in  one  supreme  con- 
sciousness ere  the  silence  and  eternity  of  the  grave: 


[catch 


[whistling 


[night -tune 


222  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


‘Alas  the  woe!  alas  the  paines  strong, 

That  I for  you  have  suffered,  and  so  long! 

Alas  the  death!  alas  mine  Emily! 

Alas  departing  of  our  company! 

Alas  mine  hearte’s  queen ! alas  my  wife ! 

Mine  hearte’s  lady,  ender  of  my  life ! 

What  is  this  world?  — what  asken  men  to  have? 

Now  with  his  love,  now  in  his  colde  grave  — 

Alone, — withonten  any  company. 

Farewell  my  sweet,— Farewell  mine  Emily! 

And  softe  take  me  in  your  armes  tway 
For  love  of  God,  and  hearkeneth  what  I say.’ 

Were  ever  the  sighs  and  sobbings  of  a broken  and  ebbing  spirit 
more  pathetically  related?  Against  the  chattering  wife  of  Bath, 
who  stuns  her  listeners,  is  the  demure  prioress — ‘Madame  Eglan- 
tine,’ simple  and  pleasing,  with  nice  and  pretty  ways,  showing,  as 
we  have  seen,  signs  of  exquisite  taste.  As  to  her  conscience, — 

‘She  was  so  charitable  and  so  piteous, 

She  woulde  weep  if  that  she  saw  a mouse 
Caught  in  a trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled. 

Of  smalle  houndes  had  she  that  she  fed 
With  roasted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  bread, 

But  sore  wept  she  if  one  of  them  were  dead, 

Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a yarde  smart: 

And  all  was  conscience  and  tender  heart,’ 

As  befits  her,  she  tells  the  touching  story  of  a Christian  child, 
‘the  ruby  bright,’  murdered  in  a Jewry,  whose  heart  is  so  filled 
with  divine  grace  that  it  breaks  out  continually  in  singing,  ‘to 
school  ward  and  homeward,’  O Alma  Reclemptoris  ! Dying  from 
the  dreadful  gash  in  his  throat,  he  sings  it  still  by  the  miracle  of 
mercy;  and  dead, — 

‘In  a tomb  of  marble  stones  clear 
Enclosen  they  his  little  body  sweet: 

There  he  is  now  God  lfcne  us  for  to  meet.’  [where,  grant 

A like  and  stronger  contrast  is  Griselda,1  who  softens  the  tyranny 
of  her  lord  by  patient  submission  and  unconquerable  affection. 
Her  whole  conduct  is  a fervid  hymn  in  praise  of  forbearance. 
Smitten  on  the  one  cheek,  she  turns  the  other.  Loving  her  hus- 
band, it  is  natural  to  her,  in  the  true  spirit  of  charity,  to  ‘suffer 
all  things,  believe  all  things,  hope  all  things,  endure  all  things.’ 
Altogether  too  passive,  you  will  say.  The  objection  is  antici- 
pated: 

‘This  story  is  said,  not  for  that  wives  should 
Follow  Griselda  as  in  humility, 

For  it  were  importable  though  they  would; 


Clerk's  Tale. 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


223 


But  for  that  every  wight  in  his  degree 
Should  be  constant  in  adversity 
As  was  Griselda,  therefore  Petrarch  writeth 
This  story,  which  with  high  style  he  enditeth. 

For  since  a woman  was  so  patient 
Unto  a mortal  man,  well  more  we  ought 

Receiven  all  in  gree  that  God  us  sent.  . . . [ kindness 

Let  us  then  live  in  virtuous  sufferance.’ 

There  is  need  of  a striking  antithesis,  in  an  age  of  brutality,  when 
the  only  choice  for  woman  lay  between  the  violence  of  vitupera- 
tion and  the  persuasion  of  meekness.  Never  to  be  forgotten  is 
the  secular  priest,  brother  to  the  plowman: 

‘There  was  a poore  Parson  of  a town, 

But  rich  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  work; 

His  parishens  devoutly  would  he  teach; 

Benign  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 

And  in  adversity  full  patient.  . . . 

Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  far  asunder. 

But  he  ne  left  naught  for  no  rain  nor  thunder, 

In  sickness  and  in  mischief,  to  visit 
The  farthest  in  his  parish  much  and  lite 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a staff: 

This  noble  ’nsample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf, 

That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterward  he  taught, 

Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 

And  this  figure  he  added  yet  thereto, 

That  if  gold  ruste  what  should  iron  do?  . . . 

He  was  a shepherd  and  no  mercenary.’ 

There  is  yet  something  good  in  Nazareth.  Not  all  the  ecclesias- 
tics are  venal  and  voluptuous.  This  one  preaches  a long  and 
earnest  sermon  on  the  text: 

‘Stand  ye  in  the  ways,  and  see,  and  ask  for  the  old  paths,  where  is  the  good  way, 
and  walk  therein,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  for  your  souls.’ 

The  genius  that  in  large  measure  is  shaped  by  the  books  it 
has  read  and  the  times  it  has  lived  in,  is  itself  a distinct  element 
of  growth.  What  could  be  more  broad  and  catholic  than  these 
Tales , open  alike  to  Briton  and  to  man,  shedding  long  beams  of 
promise  on  the  horizon  ? 

Periods. — Chaucer  was  nourished  on  the  French  Romance 
poetry,  which  in  his  early  life  formed  the  chief  reading  of  the 
court  circles.  After  the  date  of  his  first  visit  to  Italy,  impressed 
with  the  ineffaceable  charm  of  that  land  of  loveliness  and  kind- 
ling life,  his  foreign  models  were  less  French  than  Italian.  Here 
he  imitated  the  lively  Boccaccio  rather  than  Dante,  who  was  too 
severe,  or  Petrarch,  who  was  too  sentimental.  From  his  favorite, 


[little 

[gave 


224  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


he  freely  translated  his  two  longest,  and,  in  a sense,  two  greatest 
poems, — Troilus  and  Creseide  and  the  Knight's  Tale.  But  while 
his  riper  genius  is  guided  by  the  poets  of  Italy,  he  is  still  influ- 
enced by  those  of  France, — the  troubadours  and  trouveres.  The 
comic  stories  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  are  mostly  based  on  the 
fabliaux.  His  indirect  debt  to  the  Italian  stars,  however,  in  all 
that  concerns  the  elegant  handling  of  material,  and  in  the  fusion 
of  the  romantic  with  the  classic  spirit,  is  more  important.  It  is 
in  the  immortal  group  of  pilgrims  that  he  breaks  away  from  the 
literary  traditions  and  restricted  tastes  of  ranks  and  classes,  and 
becomes  characteristically  English,  distinctly  national.  Even 
here  extraneous  influences  may  be  detected,  but  original  genius 
gives  itself  freely  to  the  native  force  of  its  theme,  and  we  have, 
for  the  most  part,  the  pleasing  conditions  of  daily  life.  The  pre- 
dominant influence,  therefore,  till  1372,  is  French  ; thence  till 
1384,  Italian;  from  1384  till  1400,  English.  This  poetic  develop- 
ment may  be  represented  by  the  correspondent  table  of  works: 


First  period 


( Romaunt  of  the  Rose, 

| Complaint  to  Pity, 
j Book  of  the  Duchess, 

The  Dream, 

The  Court  of  Love, 

- The  Flower  and  the  Leaf, 


| ( attributed ).' 


Second  period....  < 


The  Former  Age, 

The  Assembly  of  Fowls, 
The  House  of  Fame, 
Troi'lus  and  Creseide, 
Knight’s  Tale. 


Third  period 


f Legend  of  Good  Women, 
j Canterbury  Tales  ( the  majority ), 
-1  Astrolabie  (prose), 

Testament  of  Love  ( attributed ), 

_ Various  Ballads. 


Style.  — Refined,  precise,  perspicuous,  employing  figures  less 
for  ornament  than  lucidity;  flexible  and  graceful,  varying  in 
subtle  response  to  the  subject  and  the  mood;  the  living  voice,  as 

1 The  genuineness  of  many  works  which  till  recently  have  passed  as  Chaucer’s,  has 
been  questioned  by  the  most  advanced  school  of  criticism.  The  dust  of  the  controversy 
has  not  yet  settled. 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


225 


it  were,  of  nature,  carrying  a tone  as  original  and  divine  as  the 
music  of  her  purling  brooks;  sometimes  tedious  from  too  great 
minuteness,  as  in  other  writers  from  too  frequent  digression ; if 
somewhat  artificial  and  disjointed  in  the  earlier  workmanship, 
simple  and  well-ordered  in  the  later.  Do  but  consider,  for  in- 
stance, the  ‘linked  sweetness’  of  the  love-passages  in  Troilus , 
or  the  grand  harmony  of  his  tragic  description,  as  of  the  temple 
of  Mars, — 

‘First  on  the  wal  was  peynted  a forest. 

In  which  ther  dwelleth  neither  man  ne  best, 

With  knotty  knarry  bareyne  trees  olde 
Of  stubbes  scharpe  and  hidous  to  byholde 
In  which  ther  ran  a swymbel  in  a swough.1 

Or  the  divine  liquidness  of  diction  and  fluidity  of  movement  in 
this  stanza  of  the  child-martyr: 

‘My  throte  is  cut  unto  my  nekke*bone, 

Saide  this  child,  and  as  by  way  of  kinde 
I shoulde  have  deyd,  yea,  longe  time  agone; 

But  Jesu  Christ,  as  ye  in  bookes  finde, 

Will  that  His  glory  last  and  be  in  minde. 

And  for  the  worship  of  His  mother  dere 
Yet  may  I sing  0 Alma  loud  and  clere.’ 

Compare  Wordsworth’s  modernization  of  the  first  three  lines: 

‘My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I trow, 

Said  this  young  child,  and  by  the  law  of  kind 
I should  have  died,  yea,  many  hours  ago.’ 

The  flower  must  fade,  though  gathered  by  the  most  skilful  hand, 
when  severed  from  its  root  that  lies  imbedded  in  the  soil. 

Rank. — First  modeller  of  the  heroic  couplet,  first  of  the 
modern  versifiers,  whose  melody  and  ease  few,  if  any,  have  sur- 
passed; whose  variety  and  power  of  diction  not  ten  of  his  suc- 
cessors have  been  able  to  rival;  to  Occleve,  his  pupil, — 

‘The  first  e fynder  of  our  faire  langage.’ 

The  first  artist  of  expression,  — that  is,  the  first  to  command  or 
guide  his  impressions,  to  deliberate,  sift,  test,  reject,  and  alter. 
Inventive,  though  a disciple;  original,  though  a translator;  and  — 
like  Shakespeare  — a borrower,  but  lending  to  all  that  he  borrows 
the  gentle  luxuriance  of  his  own  fancy,  extracting  from  the  old 
romances  their  sublime  extravagances  without  their  frivolous 
descriptions,  re-creating  the  rude  materials  of  the  trouvbres  into 
15 


226  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


forms  of  elegance,  retaining  the  gayety  and  critical  coolness  of 
the  French  without  its  wearisome  idleness,  and  tempering  the 
joyous  carelessness  of  the  Italian  with  the  English  seriousness. 

Our  first  painter  of  Nature,  who,  haunting  her  solitudes,  caught 
the  glow  of  her  skies  and  earth  in  his  landscape.  Without  the 
gift  to  see  the  hidden  wealth  of  meaning  in  the  springing  herb- 
age, dew-drops,  and  rivulets  glad,  in  the  sighings  among  the 
reeds  and  the  silent  openings  of  the  flowers,  no  great  poet  is 
possible.  Chaucer  has  it  conspicuously.  His  grass,  soft  as  velvet, 
which  he  is  never  done  praising,  is  ‘so  small,  so  thick,  so  fresh  of 
hue  ! ’ The  colors  of  petal  and  leaf,  ‘ white,  blue,  yellow,  and 
red,’  he  counts.  The  note  of  every  song-bird  he  knows  and 
loves.  His  scenery  has  the  freshness  of  a perennial  spring. 
Across  five  centuries  its  leaves  are  green,  and  its  breezes  fan  our 
cheeks.  The  May-time  is  his  favorite  season.  Before  Burns  or 
Wordsworth,  he  has  loved  and  sung  the  daisy,  the  eye-of-day, 
and  how  tenderly  ! 

‘Then  in  my  bed  there  daweth  me  no  day 
That  I n’am  up  and  walking  in  the  mead. 

To  see  this  flower  against  the  sunne  spread, 

When  it  upriseth  early  in  the  morrow; 

That  blissful  sight  softeneth  all  my  sorrow.’ 

With  the  simple,  pure  delight  of  a child,  he  kneels  to  greet  it 
when  it  first  unfolds: 

‘And  down  on  knees  anon  right  I me  set. 

And  as  I could  this  freshe  flow’r  I grette, 

Kneeling  always  till  it  unclosed  was 
Upon  the  small,  and  soft,  and  sweete  gras.’ 

The  first  clear-eyed  and  catholic  observer  of  man,  who,  catch- 
ing the  living  manners  as  they  rise,  fixes  them  in  pictures  that 
show  the  life  of  a hundred  years  as  vivid  and  familiar  as  the 
figures  in  the  streets  of  our  cities.  Think  of  the  portraits  of  the 
knight,  the  squire,  the  prioress,  the  wife,  the  clerk,  the  parson, 
the  monk, — 

‘And,  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chin, 

He  had  of  gold  y wrought  a curious  pin; 

A love-knot  in  the  greater  end  there  was: 

His  head  was  bald,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 

And  eke  his  face,  as  it  had  been  anoint; 

He  was  a lord  full  fat  and  in  good  point: 

His  eyen  steep,  and  rolling  in  his  head. 

That  steamed  as  a furnace  of  a lead.’ 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


227 


Of  the  friar, — 

‘Somewhat  he  lisped  for  his  wantonness 
To  make  his  English  sweet  upon  his  tongue  ; 

And  in  his  harping,  when  that  he  had  sung, 

His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  head , aright 
As  do  the  starves  in  a frosty  night.' 

The  lawyer, — 

‘No  where  so  busy  a man  as  he  there  n’as, 

And  yet  he  seemed  busier  than  he  was.’ 

The  franklin, — 

‘To  liven  in  delight  was  ever  his  won, 

For  he  was  Epicurus’  owen  son,  . . . 

It  snowed  in  his  house  of  meat  and  drink 
Of  alle  dainties  that  men  could  of  think. 

After  the  sundry  seasons  of  the  year. 

So  changed  he  his  meat  and  his  soupere.  . . . 

His  table  dormant  in  his  hall  alway 
Stood  ready  cover'd  all  the  longe  day.’ 

The  doctor  of  physic, — 

‘In  all  this  world  ne  was  .there  none  him  like 
To  speak  of  physic  and  of  surgery, 

For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomy. 

He  kept  his  patient  a full  great  deal 
In  houres  by  his  magic  naturel: 

Well  could  he  fortunen  the  ascendant 
Of  his  images  for  his  patient.  . . . 

Of  his  diet  measurable  was  he. 

For  it  was  of  no  superfluity, 

But  of  great  nourishing,  and  digestible. 

His  study  was  but  little  on  the  Bible. 

For  gold  in  physic  is  a cordial, 

Therefore  he  loved  gold  in  special.’ 

The  miller, — 

‘He  was  short  shouldered,  broad,  a thicke  gnarre, 
Ther  n'as  no  door  that  he  n’olde  heave  off  bar, 
Or  break  it  at  a running  with  his  head; 

His  beard  as  any  sow  or  fox  was  red, 

And  thereto  broad  as  though  it  were  a spade. 
Upon  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  had 
A wert,  and  thereon  stood  a tuft  of  hairs 
Red  as  the  bristles  of  a sowes  ears: 

His  nose-thirles  blacke  were  and  wide: 

A sword  and  buckler  bare  he  by  his  side: 

His  mouth  as  wide  was  as  a furnace: 

He  was  a jangler  and  a Goliardeis, 

And  that  was  most  of  sin  and  harlotries: 

Well  could  he  stealen  corn  and  tollen  thrice.’ 

The  reeve, — 

‘His  beard  was  shorn  as  nigh  as  ever  he  can: 

His  hair  was  by  his  eares  round  yshorn: 

His  top  was  docked  like  a priest  beforne: 

Full  longe  were  his  legges  and  full  lean, 

Ylike  a staff;  there  was  no  calf  yseen.’ 


[was  not 


[custom 


[make  fortunate 


[knot 


[top 


[nostrils 


[reveller 


228  INITIATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS, 


The  summoner, — 

‘With  scalled  browes  black  and  pilled  beard;  [ scurfy , bald 

Of  his  visage  children  were  sore  afeard.  . . . 

Well  lov’d  he  garlick,  onions,  and  leeks, 

And  for  to  drink  strong  wine  as  red  as  blood; 

Then  would  he  speak  and  cry  as  he  were  wood.’  [ mad 

The  pardoner, — 

‘That  straight  was  comen  from  the  court  of  Rome; 

Full  loud  he  sang  “Come  hither  love  to  me.”  . . . 

His  wallet  lay  before  him  in  his  lap 

Bret-fnll  of  pardon  come  from  Rome  all  hot.’  [ brimfull 

Face,  costume,  disposition,  habits,  antecedents, — all  are  here, 
each  character  distinct  and  to  this  day  typical;  each  maintained, 
moreover,  by  its  subsequent  actions;  each  speech  appropriate  to 
the  speaker,  and  all  strung  together  by  incidents  so  natural,  by 
conversations  so  life-like, — a veritable  troop  of  pilgrims  filing 
leisurely  on,  talking  and  trying  to  amuse  themselves  by  what 
they  have  heard  in  the  hall  or  by  the  wayside!  This  is  dramatic 
composition,  not  in  its  full  and  precise  form,  but  in  its  rudiments. 
The  pictorial  power  of  dealing  in  a living  way  with  men  and 
their  actions  is  Chaucer’s  point  of  contact  with  Shakespeare: 

Like  all  who  excel  in  the  delineation  of  character,  a master  of 
humor  and  pathos.  To  take  an  additional  example;  the  pardon- 
er, describing  himself  preaching,  says: 

‘Then  pain  I me  to  stretchen  forth  my  neck. 

And  east  and  west,  upon  the  people  I beck , 

As  doth  a dove  sitting  upon  a barn.' 

Or,  to  view  the  full  length  of  a monk  in  one  line, — 

‘Fat  as  a whale,  and  walked  as  a swan.' 

As  with  Shakespeare,  again,  it  is  difficult  to  decide  in  which 
style  Chaucer  is  greater, — the  humorous  or  the  pathetic.  When 
Griselda  is  informed  by  her  husband  that  she  must  return  to 
her  father  to  make  room  for  her  successor,  she  says: 

‘I  never  held  me  lady  ne  maistress, 

But  humble  servant  to  your  worthiness. 

And  ever  shall,  while  that  my  life  may  dure, 

Aboven  every  worldly  creature.  . . . 

And  of  your  newe  wife  God  of  his  grace 
So  grant  you  weal  and  prosperity; 

For  I wol  gladly  yielden  her  my  place, 

In  which  that  I was  blissful  wont  to  be: 

For,  sith  it  liketh  yon  my  lord  quod  she, 

That  whilome  weren  all  my  heartes  rest. 

That  I shall  gon,  I wol  go  where  you  list.  . . . 


THE  DAWN  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


229 


0 goode  God!  how  gentle  and  how  kind 
Ye  seemed  by  your  speech  and  your  visage 
The  day  that  maked  was  our  marriage !' 

Find,  who  will,  a finer  burst  of  natural  feeling  than  is  expressed 
in  the  closing  verses.  When  Troi'lus  is  bereft  of  Creseide  by  her 
departure  for  the  Grecian  camp,  the  universe  is  absorbed  in  the 
one  idea  of  his  love: 

‘And  every  night,  as  was  his  wont  to  do, 

He  stood,  the  bright  moon  shining  to  behold. 

And  all  his  sorrow  to  the  moon  he  told, 

And  said— “Surely  when  thou  art  horned  new, 

1 shall  be  glad— if  all  the  ivorld  be  true."' 

Ah  me,  match  it  who  can  ! 

Yet  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great  classics  whose  imagina- 
tions revel  equally  in  regions  of  mirth,  beauty,  and  grandeur. 
He  wants  their  high  seriousness,  which  detecting  the  divine  sig- 
nificance of  things,  breathes  the  aspiration  for  something  purer 
and  lovelier,  more  thrilling  and  powerful,  than  real  life  affords, 
and  with  its  prophetic  vision  helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the  future 
life.  He  loves  the  fresh  green  of  the  panting  spring,  but  has 
little  sympathy  with  the  sear  and  yellow  of  the  mystical  autumn. 
His  love  of  nature  is  a simple,  unreflective,  childlike  love: 

‘He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 

Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine  through  the  dark 
Of  painted  glass,  in  leaden  lattice  bound, 

He  listeneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the  sound , 

Then  writeth  in  a book  like  any  clerk.' 

Nature  is  not  to  him,  as  it  is  to  the  highest,  a symbol  translucent 
with  the  light  of  the  moral  and  spiritual  world.  He  lacks  the 
faculty  of  true  naturalistic  interpretation.  He  has  never  heard  — 

‘The  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 
Must  think  on  what  will  be,  and  what  has  been.’ 

Character.  — A man  of  letters  and  of  action,  trained  in 
books,  war,  courts,  business,  travel.  A poet  and  a logician,  a, 
student  and  an  observer,  a linguist  and  a politician,  a courtier  of 
opulent  tastes  and  a philosopher  who  surveyed  mankind  in  their 
widest  sphere.  He  was  a hard  worker.  By  his  own  confession, 
reading  was  his  chief  delight.  The  eagle  that  carries  him  into 
the  empyrean,  says: 

‘Thou  goest  home  to  thine  house  anone. 

And  allso  dumb  as  a stone 
Thou  sittest  at  another  book 
Till  fully  dazed  is  thy  look.’ 


230  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Happy  among  books,  he  was  happy  among  men.  Scorning  only 
hypocrisy,  he  loved  many-colored  life, — its  weakness  and  its 
strength,  its  delicacy  and  its  force,  its  laughter  and  its  tears. 
Modest,  glad,  and  tender.  Never  were  lovers  more  genuine,  un- 
tainted and  adoring,  than  his.  Troilus  and  Creseide  speak  with 
hearts  of  primeval  innocence.  He  had  indeed  said,  perhaps  in  a 
momentary  scepticism  or  irritation,  of  the  courtly  class  whose 
stability  seemed  to  lie  in  perpetual  change: 

‘What  man  ymay  the  wind  restrain, 

Or  holden  a snake  by  the  tail? 

Who  may  a slipper  eel  restrain 
That  it  will  void  withouten  fail? 

Or  who  can  driven  so  a nail 

To  make  sure  newfangleness,  [inconstancy 

Save  women,  that  can  gie  their  sail  [guidt 

To  row  their  boat  with  doubleness?  ’ 

Yet  for  woman  he  had  a true  and  chivalrous  regard.  It  was  with 
the  avowed  purpose  of  rendering  homage  to  the  beauty  of  pure 
womanhood  that  he  wrote  the  legend  — 

‘Of  goode  women,  maidenes,  and  wives. 

That  weren  true  in  loving  all  their  lives.’ 

His  emblem  of  womanly  truth  and  purity  was  the  daisy,  with  its 
head  of  gold  and  crown  of  white.  And  how  he  loves  it! 

‘So  glad  am  I,  when  that  I have  presence 
Of  it,  to  doon  it  alle  reverence 
As  she  that  is  of  alle  floures  flour, 

Fulfilled  of  all  virtue  and  honour, 

And  ever  alike  fair  and  fresh  of  hue, 

And  I love  it,  and  ever  alike  new, 

And  ever  shall,  till  that  mine  herte  die.’ 

I know  of  nothing  like  it, — this  man  of  the  world,  of  ceremonies 
and  cavalcades,  conversant  with  high  and  low,  with  gallant  knights 
and  bedizened  ladies,  far-travelled,  tempest-tossed,  and  time-worn, 
turning  from  the  gorgeous  imagery  that  filled  his  vision  to  find 
‘revel  and  solace’  in  the  open-air  world,  and  dwelling  with  the 
glad,  sweet  abandon  of  a child,  on  the  springing  flowers,  the 
green  fields,  the  budding  woods,  the  singing  of  the  little  birds: 

‘So  loud  they  sang,  that  all  the  woodes  rung 
Like  as  it  should  shiver  in  pieces  small; 

And  as  methought  that  the  Nightingale 
With  so  great  might  her  voice  out-wrest, 

Right  as  her  heart  for  love  would  burst.’ 

Or  the  beauty  of  the  morning.  Were  never  sun-risings  so  exhila- 
rating as  his: 


THE  DAWN-  OF  ART  — CHAUCER. 


231 


‘The  busy  larke,  messager  of  day 
Saluteth  in  her  song  the  morwe  gray; 

And  fyry  Phebus  riseth  up  so  bright 
That  al  the  orient  laugheth  of  the  light, 

And  with  his  stremes  dryeth  in  the  greves 
The  silver  dropes  hongying  on  the  leeves.’ 

Sensitive  to  every  change  of  feeling  in  himself  and  others,  his 
sympathies  were  as  large  as  the  nature  of  man.  Bred  among 
aristocrats,  he  thought  that  good  desires  and  ‘ gentil  dedes  ’ were 
the  only  aristocracy. 

Brave  in  misfortune.  Troubled  he  was,  but  no  trouble  could 
extort  from  him  a fretful  note.  He  easily  shirks  the  burden,  and 
sings  to  his  empty  purse: 

‘To  you  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight, 

Complain  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dear; 

I am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  so  light, 

For  certes  ye  now  make  me  heavy  cheer: 

Me  were  as  lief  be  laid  upon  a bier, 

For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I cry. 

Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  must  I die. 

Now  vouchsafen  this  day  ere  it  be  night 
That  I of  you  the  blissful  sound  may  hear. 

Or  see  your  colour  like  the  sunne  bright, 

That  of  yellowness  ne  had  never  peer; 

Ye  be  my  life,  ye  be  my  heartes  steer;  [helm 

Queen  of  comfort  and  of  good  company. 

Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  must  I die. 

Now  purse,  that  art  to  me  my  lives  light, 

And  saviour,  as  down  in  this  world  here, 

Out  of  this  towne  help  me  by  your  might, 

Sithen  that  you  will  not  be  my  tresor, 

For  I am  shave  as  nigh  as  any  frere, 

But  I prayen  unto  your  courtesy 
Be  heavy  again,  or  elles  must  I die.’ 

The  flying  shadow  of  grief  touches  him,  but  does  not  rest  there. 

Less  sportive,  he  would  have  been  less  vulgar.  Some  of  his 
pages  are  stained,  but  the  blemishes  are  not  of  evil  intent,  and 
are  rather  to  be  imputed  to  the  age.  Our  minds  are  tinged  with 
the  color  of  custom.  Refinement  preserves  public  decency,  want 
of  it  permits  the  grossest  violations.  Having  fixed  upon  his 
personage,  Chaucer,  as  he  himself  pleads,  had  to  adjust  the  tale 
to  the  teller.  However, — 

‘Who  list  not  to  hear. 

Turn  over  the  leaf,  and  choose  another  tale ! ’ 

His  sympathies  are  with  virtue.  For  subjects  obscene  and  dis- 
gustful, as  such,  he  has  no  taste.  It  is  not  the  filth  he  enjoys,  but 


232  INITIATIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


the  fun.  Of  two  unnatural  selections  by  the  ‘moral  Gower,’  he 
cries: 

‘Of  all  such  cursed  stones  I say,  Fy!’ 

He  is  a moralist,  but  a happy  and  humorous  one;  of  an  ethical 
temper,  too  indolent  to  make  a reformer  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  fiery  Langland  or  the  stern  Wycliffe  was  one.  He  was  pro- 
gressive without  being  revolutionary. 

Influence. — He  rescued  the  native  tongue  from  Babylonish 
confusion,  and  established  a literary  diction,  banishing  from 
Anglo-Saxon  the  superannuated  and  uncouth,  and  softening  its 
churlish  nature  by  the  intermixture  of  words  of  Romance  fancy. 

He  created,  or  introduced  a new  versification;  exemplified  the 
principle  of  syllabical  regularity,  which  is  now  the  law  and  the 
practice  of  our  poetry;  and  by  the  superior  correctness,  grace, 
elevation,  and  harmony  of  his  style,  became  the  first  model  to 
succeeding  writers. 

He  delineated  English  society  with  a pictorial  force  that  makes 
us  familiar  with  the  domestic  habits  and  modes  of  thinking  of  a 
most  interesting  and  important  period. 

He  is  an  unfailing  fount  of  joy  and  strength,  to  revive  the 
relish  of  simple  pleasures,  to  bring  back  the  freshness  that 
warmed  the  springtime  of  our  being,  to  refine  youthful  love,  to 
make  us  esteem  better  the  gentle  and  noble,  and  to  feel  more 
kindly  towards  the  rude  and  base.  Our  market-places  will  be 
grass-grown,  the  hum  of  our  industry  will  be  stilled,  but  the  ages 
will  carry,  as  on  the  odoriferous  wings  of  gentle  gales,  the  sweet 
strains  of  — 

‘That  noble  Chaucer,  in  those  former  times. 

Who  first  enriched  our  English  with  his  rhymes, 

And  was  the  first  of  ours  that  ever  broke 
Into  the  Muse’s  treasures,  and  first  spoke 
In  mighty  numbers;  delving  in  the  mine 
Of  perfect  knowledge.’ 


[RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FEATURES. 

A brilliant  sun  enlivens  the  face  of  nature  with  an  unusual  lustre;  the  sudden 
appearance  of  cloudless  skies,  and  the  unexpected  warmth  of  a tepid  atmosphere,  after 
the  gloom  and  inclemencies  of  a tedious  winter,  fill  our  hearts  with  the  visionary  pros- 
pects of  a speedy  summer;  and  we  fondly  anticipate  a long  continuance  of  gentle  gales 
and  vernal  serenity.  But  winter  returns  with  redoubled  horrors;  the  clouds  condense 
more  formidably  than  before;  and  those  tender  buds,  and  early  blossoms,  which  were 
called  forth  by  the  transient  gleam  of  a temporary  sunshine,  are  nipped  by  frost  and 
torn  by  tempests.—  Warton. 

Politics. — xAfter  two  and  a half  centuries  of  majestic  rule, 
the  dominion  of  the  Plantagenets1  proper  passed  away  forever; 
and  the  House  of  Lancaster,  in  the  person  of  Henry  IV,  was 
raised  to  the  throne  by  a Parliamentary  revolution.  He  bought 
the  support  of  the  Church  by  the  promise  of  religious  persecu- 
tion, and  that  of  the  nobles  by  a renewal  of  the  fatal  French 
war.  Henry  V continued  and  almost  realized  the  dream  of  an 
English  empire  in  France,  and  his  widow,  contracting  a second 
marriage  with  Owen  Tudor,  descendant  of  the  Welsh  princes, 
became  the  ancestress  of  another  proud  line  of  English  sov- 
ereigns. The  career  of  Henry  VI  was  one  of  disaster  in  almost 
every  variety, — factional  strife  at  home,  and  calamity  abroad. 
The  Hundred  Years’  War  ended,  happily  for  mankind,  with  the 
expulsion  of  the  English  from  French  soil.  Revolts  of  the  popu- 
lace were  followed  by  a long  and  deadly  struggle  for  supremacy 
between  the  parties  of  the  red  rose  and  the  white,  headed  by  two 
branches  of  the  Plantagenet  dynasty, — the  Lancastrians  and  the 
Yorkists.  After  the  violent  crimes  and  excesses  of  Edward  IV 
and  Richard  III,  of  the  House  of  York  — the  one  a despot  and  a 
sensualist,  the  other  a usurper  and  a monster  — when  the  illus- 

1 The  heads  of  the  line  were  Geoffrey  of  Anjou  and  Maud,  daughter  of  Henry  I of 
England.  The  name  is  derived  from  Planta  Genista , Latin  for  the  shrub  which  was  worn 
as  an  emblem  of  humility  by  the  first  Earl  of  Anjou  when  a pilgrim  of  Holy  Land.  From 
this  his  successors  took  their  crest  and  their  surname. 


234 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


trious  barons  were  exterminated,  or  reduced  to  a shadow  of  their 
former  greatness,  the  rival  claims  of  the  warring  lines  were 
united  in  the  House  of  Tudor. 

While  the  administration  swerved  continually  into  an  irregu- 
lar course,  the  restraint  of  Parliament  grew  more  effectual,  and 
notions  of  legal  right  acquired  more  precision,  till  the  time  of 
Henry  VI,  when  the  progress  of  constitutional  liberty  was  ar- 
rested by  the  Wars  of  the  Roses.  To  the  restriction  of  suffrage 
succeeded  the  corruption  of  elections.1  The  baronage  wrecked, 
the  Crown  towered  into  solitary  greatness,  and  by  its  overpower- 
ing influence  practically  usurped  the  legislative  functions  of  the 
two  Houses.  The  interests  of  self-preservation  led  the  church- 
man, the  squire,  and  the  burgess  to  lay  freedom  at  the  foot  of 
the  throne.  Without  a standing  army,  however,  it  is  impossible 
to  oppress,  beyond  a certain  point,  an  armed  people.  Governors 
could  safely  be  tyrants  within  the  precinct  of  the  court,  but  any 
general  and  long-continued  despotism  was  prevented  by  the  awe 
in  which  they  stood  of  the  temper  and  strength  of  the  governed. 
From  the  accession  of  Henry  VII  is  to  be  dated  a new  era, 
which,  if  less  distinguished  by  the  spirit  of  freedom,  is  more 
prosperous  in  the  diffusion  of  opulence  and  the  preservation  of 
order. 

Society. — Brutal  as  was  the  strife  of  the  Roses,  its  effects 
were  limited,  in  fact,  to  the  great  lords  and  their  feudal  retainers. 
The  trading  and  industrial  classes  appear,  for  the  most  part,  to 
have  stood  wholly  aloof.  It  was  of  this  period  that  Comines,  an 
accomplished  observer  of  his  age,  wrote: 

‘In  my  opinion,  of  all  the  countries  in  Europe  where  I was  ever  acquainted,  the  gov- 
ernment is  nowhere  so  well  managed,  the  people  nowhere  less  obnoxious  to  violence  and 
oppression,  nor  their  houses  less  liable  to  the  desolations  of  war,  than  in  England,  for 
there  the  calamities  fall  only  upon  their  authors.’ 

Elsewhere: 

‘England  has  this  peculiar  grace,  that  neither  the  country,  nor  the  people,  nor  the 
houses  are  wasted,  destroyed,  or  demolished;  but  the  calamities  and  misfortunes  of  the 
war  fall  only  upon  the  soldiers,  and  especially  the  nobility.’ 2 

Orders  were  frequently  issued,  previous  to  a battle,  to  slay  the 

1 The  complaint  of  the  men  of  Kent  in  Cade’s  revolt,  1450,  alleges:  ‘The  people  of 
the  shire  are  not  allowed  to  have  their  free  election  in  the  choosing  of  knights  for  the 
shire,  but  letters  have  been  sent  from  divers  estates  to  the  great  rulers  of  all  the  coun- 
try, the  which  enforceth  their  tenants  and  other  people  by  force  to  choose  other  persons 
than  the  common  will  is.’ 

2 The  actual  warfare  in  England  from  1455  to  1485  included  an  aggregate  space  of 
about  two  years. 


SOCIAL  STATE  — INDUSTRIES  — SAVAGERY. 


235 


nobles  and  spare  the  commoners.  The  civil  war  was  the  death- 
struggle  of  feudalism.  The  consequent  depression  of  the  aristoc- 
racy was  the  elevation  of  the  people.  Thb  words  rent  and  wages, 
in  familiar  use,  indicate  the  relations  of  class  to  class.  The  rude 
fidelity  of  vassalage  was  exchanged  for  the  hard  bargaining  of 
tenancy. 

There  were  no  factories.  Every  manufacture  — cloth-making 
the  most  important  — was  carried  on,  in  its  several  branches,  at 
the  homes  of  the  workmen.  The  natural  resources  of  the  country 
were  very  imperfectly  operated.  A Venetian  traveller,  speaking 
of  the  general  aspect  of  the  country  in  the  time  of  Henry  VII, 
says: 

‘England  is  all  diversified  by  pleasant  undulating  hills  and  beautiful  valleys,  nothing 
being  to  be  seen  but  agreeable  woods,  or  extensive  meadows,  or  lands  in  cultivation.’ 

But  he  adds: 

‘Agriculture  is  not  practised  in  this  island  beyond  what  is  required  for  the  consump- 
tion of  the  people ; because,  were  they  to  plough  and  sow  all  the  land  that  was  capable  of 
cultivation,  they  might  sell  a quantity  of  grain  to  the  surrounding  countries.’ 

Capital  seems  to  have  been  more  advantageously  applied  to  the 
growth  of  sheep.  By  a statute  of  1495,  every  laborer  from  mid 
March  to  mid  September  is  to  be  at  his  work  before  five  o’clock 
in  the  morning,  nor  leave  it  till  between  seven  and  eight  in  the 
evening,  with  a half  hour  for  breakfast  and  an  hour  for  dinner. 
Modern  labor  would  not  appear,  in  comparison,  to  be  overtasked. 

It  was  still  a militar}^  community,  with  an  excess  of  vigor  and 
readiness  to  fight.  The  iron  helmet  hung  upon  the  wall  of  the 
castle;  and  the  long  bows  were  at  hand  for  the  deadly  flight  of 
the  arrow,  or  the  practice  of  archery  on  Sundays  and  festival 
days.  Parliaments,  early  in  the  century,  were  like  armed  camps. 
That  of  1426  was  called  the  ‘Club  Parliament,’  from  the  circum- 
stance that,  when  arms  were  prohibited,  the  retainers  of  the 
barons  appeared  with  clubs  on  their  shoulders.  When  clubs 
were  forbidden,  stones  and  balls  of  lead  were  concealed  in  the 
clothing.  Later  there  is  the  story  of  a street-scuffle  between  two 
noblemen,  in  which  several  retainers  were  killed.  A statute  of 
restraint  was  enacted  against  Oxford  scholars  who  hunted  with 
dogs  in  parks  and  forests,  threatened  the  lives  of  keepers,  and 
liberated  clerks  convicted  of  felony.  The  harvest  of  highway 
robbery  was  abundant.  ‘If  God,’  said  a French  general,  ‘had 


236 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


been  a captain  now-a-days,  he  would  have  turned  marauder.’ 
Says  Fortescue,  Chancellor  under  Henry  VI: 

* It  is  cowardise  and  lack  of  hartes  and  corage  that  kepeth  the  Frenchmen  from  rysyng, 
and  not  povertye ; which  corage  no  Frenche  man  hath  like  to  the  English  man.  It  hath 
been  often  seen  in  England  that  iij  or  iv  thefes,  for  povertie,  hath  sett  upon  vij  or  viij  true 
men,  and  robbyd  them  al.  But  it  hath  not  ben  seen  in  Fraunce,  that  vij  or  viij  thefes  have 
ben  hardy  to  robbe  iij  or  iv  true  men.  Wherefor  it  is  right  seld  that  Frenchmen  be  hangyd 
for  robbery e,  for  that  they  have  no  hertys  to  do  so  terryble  an  acte.  There  be  therfor  mo 
men  hangid  in  Englond,  in  a yere,  for  robberye  and  manslaughter,  than  ther  be  hangid  in 
Fraunce  for  such  cause  of  crime  in  vij  yers.’ 

It  was  natural  that  the  discharged  retainer  of  a decayed  house 
should  rather  incline  to  take  a purse  than  wield  a spade.  Ballad 
story  relates  how  King  Edward  IV  on  a hunt  meets  a bold  tanner, 
and  inquires  the  ‘readyest  waye  to  Drayton  Basset, — 

‘To  Drayton  Basset  woldst  thou  goe. 

Fro  the  place  where  thou  dost  stand? 

The  next  payre  of  gallowes  thou  comest  unto, 

Turne  in  upon  thy  right  hand.’ 

Violence  and  cruelty  went  hand  in  hand.  In  the  reign  of  Henry 
IV,  it  was  made  felony  to  cut  out  any  person’s  tongue,  or  put  out 
his  eyes, — crimes  which,  the  act  says,  were  very  frequent.  The 
Earl  of  Rutland  carrying  on  a pole  the  severed  head  of  his  broth- 
er-in-law, presented  it  to  this  monarch  in  testimony  of  his  loyalty. 
Two  princes  were  smothered  in  the  tower.  Men  were  beheaded 
without  appeal  to  law  or  justice.  The  gory  head  of  a Lollard 
was  welcomed  into  London,  with  psalms  of  thanksgiving,  by  a 
procession  of  abbots  and  bishops,  who  went  out  to  meet  it.  The 
head  of  a Royalist,  crowned  in  mockery  with  a diadem  of  paper, 
was  impaled  on  the  walls  of  York. 

Now  that  the  battle-axe  and  sword  had  destroyed  the  petty 
royalty  of  the  feudal  baron,  the  lords  quitted  their  sombre  cas- 
tles— strong  fortresses,  but  dreary  abodes  — and  flocked  into 
others  uniting  convenience  and  beauty  with  some  power  of  de- 
fence. Vaulted  roofs  and  turrets,  the  decorated  gable  and  the 
spacious  window,  superseded  in  most  instances  the  protecting 
parapet  and  the  frowning  embrasure.  The  distinguishing  feature 
of  the  domestic  arrangement  was  still  the  great  hall  with  its 
central  fire.  In  towns  the  upper  stories  projected  over  the  lower, 
so  that  in  narrow  streets  the  opposite  fronts  were  only  a few  feet 
apart.  A Paston  letter  gives  a curious  insight  into  the  construc- 
tion of  the  ordinary  manor-house: 


SOCIAL  STATE  — HOUSES  — NEWS  — SPORTS. 


237 


‘Patrick  and  his  fellowship  are  sore  afraid  that  ye  would  enter  again  upon  them;  and 
they  have  made  great  ordinance  within  the  house ; and  it  is  told  me  they  have  made  bars  to 
bar  the  doors  crosswise ; and  they  have  made  wickets  in  every  quarter  of  the  house  to  shoot 
out  at,  both  with  bows  and  with  hand-guns;  and  the  holes  that  be  made  for  hand-guns  they 
be  scarce  knee-high  from  the  plancher  (floor) ; and  of  such  holes  be  made  five;  there  can 
no  man  shoot  out  at  them  with  no  hand- bows.’ 

Sleeping  apartments  were  small.  Mrs.  Paston  is  puzzled  to  know 
how  she  can  put  her  husband’s  writing-board  and  his  coffer  beside 
the  bed,  so  that  he  may  have  space  to  sit.  Beds  were  rarely  used 
except  by  the  most  wealthy.  It  is  poetry  and  history  combined 
that  presents  the  affecting  spectacle  of  a care-worn  and  sleepless 
king  asking, — 

‘Why,  rather,  Sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs , 

Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 

And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber; 

Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great, 

Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 

And  lull’d  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody?’1 

Common  utensils  were  transmitted  in  wills  from  generation  to 
generation, — tongs,  bellows,  pans,  pewter  dishes,  ‘a  great  earth- 
en pot  that  was  my  mother’s.’ 

From  the  scarcity  of  books,  reading  could  be  no  common 
acquirement.  From  the  dearness  of  parchment  and  the  slowness- 
of  scribes,  manuscripts  were  things  purchasable  only  by  princely 
munificence.  News  travelled  slowly,  borne  for  the  most  part,  by 
traders  and  pilgrims.  The  result  of  the  great  battle  of  Towton 
was  six  days  in  reaching  London.  Posts  — horsemen  placed 
twenty  miles  apart  — were  now  first  used  on  the  road  from  Lon- 
don to  Scotland.  No  modern  net-work  of  wires  and  rails  broke 
the  narrow  circle  of  local  influence  in  which  men  usually  abode 
from  childhood  to  age. 

Amid  monotonous  cares  and  the  endless  inconvenience  of 
climate,  while  kings  are  dethroned  and  princes  assassinated,  the 
spirit  of  enjoyment  abides,  reflected  in  the  perilous  combats  of 
the  lists,  the  masks  and  disguisings  of  the  palace,  the  antique 
pageantry  of  Christmas,  the  merriments  of  Easter  and  May-day. 
Wrestlers  contended  before  the  mayor  and  aldermen,  as  their 
fathers  had  done;  and  the  archers  went  out,  as  of  old,  into  Fins- 
bury Fields.  Yaulters  came  tumbling  about,  jugglers  bewitched 
the  eye,  and  the  ambulatory  minstrel  with  his  harp  borne  before 
him  by  his  smiling  page,  who  — 


Shakespeare’s  Henry  IV. 


238 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


‘Walken  fer  and  wyde, 

Her  and  ther,  In  every  syde, 

In  many  a diverse  londe.’ 

From  the  days  of  Henry  III,  the  burning  crests  of  the  marching 
watch1  had  sent  up  their  triumphant  fires.  The  twilight  hours 
of  June  and  July  witnessed  the  simple  hospitalities  of  primitive 
London: 

‘On  the  vigils  of  festival  days,  and  on  the  same  festival  days  after  the  sun  setting, 
there  were  usually  made  bonfires  in  the  streets,  every  man  bestowing  wood  and  labor 
toward  them;  the  wealthier  sort  also,  before  their  doors  near  to  the  said  bonfire,  would 
set  out  tables  on  the  vigils,  furnished  with  sweet  bread  and  good  drink,  and  on  the  fes- 
tival days  with  meats  and  drinks  plentifully,  whereunto  they  would  invite  their  neighbors 
and  passengers  also  to  sit  and  be  merry  with  them  in  great  familiarity,  praising  God  for 
the  benefits  bestowed  on  them.* 

Most  beautiful  of  all  — in  its  original  simplicity  so  associated 
with  the  love  of  nature  — was  the  custom  of  rising  at  dawn  in 
the  month  of  May,2  and  going  forth,  rich  and  poor,  with  one  im- 
pulse, to  the  woods  for  boughs  of  hawthorn  and  laurel  to  deck 
the  doorways  of  the  street,  as  a joyful  welcoming,  amid  feasting 
and  dancing,  of  the  sweet  spring-time.  Spontaneous  and  uncon- 
scious acknowledgment  of  the  beauty  of  the  Universe,  as  by 
men  reared  in  the  pathless  forests,  knowing  Nature  as  a house- 
hold friend  that  has  entwined  itself  with  their  first  affections;  a 
thing  of  the  nerves  and  animal  spirits,  yet  impossible,  alas  ! to 
our  present  analytic  and  jaded  civilization.  We,  all  utilitarian 
and  prosaic,  mourn  in  vain  the  loss  of  that  direct  and  unreflecting 
pleasure  which  the  untutored  imagination  felt  in  habitual  con- 
verse with  earth  and  sky,  talking  to  the  wayside  flowers  of  its 
love,  and  to  the  fading  clouds  of  its  ambition;  or  that  earlier  fresh- 
ness of  eye,  which,  in  the  first  pencillings  of  dawn  that  struck 
some  lonely  peak  or  fell  into  some  sequestered  dell,  saw  the 
Fairies  retiring;  from  their  moonlight  dances  into  the  green  knolls 
where  they  made  their  homes. 

Religion. — It  may  be  doubtful  whether  the  belief  in  fairies 
Lad  passed  away.  At  least  they  lurked  in  the  by-corners  of  our 
poets,  and  existed  elsewhere  under  a new  character,  degraded  by 
the  church  into  imps  of  darkness,  to  inspire  no  doubt  a horror  of 
relapse  into  heathenish  rites.  Superstition  was  wide  and  dense, 
and  riveted  with  theology.  Christianity  in  its  struggle  with  the 
barbarian  world  had  been  profoundly  modified.  The  tendency  to 

1 The  men  of  the  watch  were  the  voluntary  police  of  the  city. 

2 May  began  twelve  days  later  than  now,  and  ended  in  the  midst  of  June. 


TIIE  CHURCH  — HER  DEBASEMENT. 


239 


a material,  sensuous  faith  was  fatally  strengthened,  first  by  the 
infusion  of  the  pagan  element,  then  by  the  debasement  and 
avarice  of  the  clergy.  To  the  idols  of  Paganism  succeeded 
shrines,  relics,  masses,  holy  wells,  awful  exorcisms,  saintly  vigils, 
festivals,  images  of  miraculous  power,  pilgrimages  afar  and  pen- 
ances at  home.  At  Canterbury  were  skulls,  chins,  teeth,  hands, 
fingers,  arms,  feet,  shoes,  legs,  hair,  rags,  splinters  from  the 
crown  of  thorns,  etccetera , to  be  adored  and  kissed  by  the  innu- 
merable pilgrims  — for  money.  Each  shrine  had  certificates 
written  by  the  Virgin  or  by  angels,  to  support  the  lucrative 
impostures.  Winking  statues  were  rife  ; bleeding  wafers  were 
exhibited;  boys  wrapped  in  gold  foil  were  introduced  as  heavenly 
visions.  Says  a contemporary: 

‘The  ignorant  masses  worship  the  images  of  stone,  or  of  wood,  or  marble,  or  brass,  or 
painted  on  the  walls  of  churches, — not  as  statues  or  mere  figures,  but  as  if  they  were 
living,  and  trust  more  in  them  than  in  either  Christ  or  the  saints.  Hence  they  offer  them 
gold,  silver,  rings,  and  jewels  of  all  kinds,  and  that  the  more  may  be  wheedled  into  doing 
so,  those  who  drive  this  trade  hang  medals  from  the  neck  or  arms  of  the  image,  to  sell,  and 
gather  the  gifts  they  receive  into  heaps  in  conspicuous  places,  putting  labels  on  them  by 
which  the  names  of  the  donors  may  be  proclaimed.  By  all  this  a great  part  of  the  world  is 
put  past  itself  about  these  images,  and  led  to  make  often  distant  pilgrimages,  that  they 
may  visit  some  little  figure  and  leave  their  gifts  to  it ; and  all  piety,  charity  and  duty  is 
neglected  to  do  this,  in  the  belief  that  they  have  given  and  repented  enough  if  they  have 
put  gold  into  the  bag  at  the  shrine.’ 

Charms  and  amulets  were  a sure  guarantee  against  every  form  of 
disaster.  The  mystical  virtues  of  the  cross  were  the  incessant 
theme  of  the  monk.  No  happy  issue  of  an  adventure  could  be 
expected  without  its  frequent  sign.  In  peril  or  in  pleasure,  in 
sorrow  and  in  sin,  they  diagrammed  it  by  the  motion  of  their 
hands.  It  stood,  as  the  hallowed  witness  which  marked  the 
boundaries  between  parishes.  It  stood  at  the  beginning  and  at 
the  end  of  private  letters,  as  of  public  documents.  It  became 
the  mark  which  served  as  the  convenient  signature  of  some 
unlettered  baron.  They  knelt  to  it,  kissed  it  — kissed  it  as  a 
palpable  and  visible  deity.  Waxen  images  were  potent  to  pro- 
cure health  and  weal.  An  anxious  wife  writes  to  her  husband, 
sick  in  London: 

‘ My  mother  vowed  another  image  of  wax  of  the  weight  of  you,  to  our  Lady  of  Walsing- 
ham ; and  she  sent  four  nobles  to  the  four  orders  of  friars  at  Norwich  to  pray  for  you ; and 
T have  vowed  to  go  on  pilgrimage  to  Walsingham  and  St.  Leonards.' 

In  the  last  human  trial,  these  vain  ceremonials  were  efficacious  to 
comfort  and  to  cheer.  Testaments  provided  for  requiems  to  be 


240 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


said,  in  rich  vestments  especially  furnished  for  the  purpose; 
newly-painted  images  of  ‘our  Lady’  to  be  set  up,  with  tapers 
ever  burning;  the  chimes  in  the  steeple  to  be  repaired;  the  priest 
to  have  a yearly  reward,  or  a residence,  and  at  each  meal  to 
repeat  the  name  of  the  testator,  that  they  who  hear  may  say, 
‘God  have  mercy  on  his  soul’;  a Latin  sentence  to  be  written  ‘on 
the  fore  part  of  the  iron  about  my  grave,’  and  therewith  ‘the 
pardon  which  I purchased ’ ; ten  pounds  ‘to  a priest  for  to  go  to 
Rome,  and  I will  that  the  said  priest  go  to  the  stations  and  say 
masses  as  is  according  to  a pilgrim.’  Henry  VII  engaged  two 
thousand  masses,  at  sixpence  (!)  each,  to  be  said  for  the  repose 
of  his  soul. 

It  was  universally  taught  that  innumerable  evil  spirits  were 
ranging  over  the  world,  seeking  the  present  misery  and  future 
ruin  of  mankind, — fallen  spirits  that  retained  the  angelic  capaci- 
ties, and  directed  against  men  the  energies  of  superhuman  malice. 
The  brave  yeomen,  who  fronted  danger  in  the  field,  quailed  before 
the  gentle  Maid  as  a sorceress.  A proclamation  was  issued  to 
the  soldiery  to  reassure  them  against  the  incantations  of  the 
girl.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  wrote  to  the  king: 

‘All  things  here  prospered  for  you  till  the  time  of  the  siege  of  Orleans,  undertaken  of 
whose  advice  God  only  knows.  Since  the  death  of  my  cousin  of  Salisbury,  whom  God 
absolve,  who  fell  by  the  hand  of  God,  as  it  seemeth,  your  people,  who  were  assembled  in 
great  number  at  this  siege,  have  received  a terrible  check.  This  has  been  caused  in  part, 
as  we  trow,  by  the  confidence  our  enemies  have  in  a disciple  and  limb  of  the  Devil,  called 
Pucelle,  that  used  false  enchantments  and  sorcery.  The  which  stroke  and  discomfiture  has 
not  only  lessened  the  number  of  your  people  here,  but  also  sunk  the  courage  of  the  remain- 
der in  a wonderful  manner,  and  encouraged  your  enemies  to  assemble  themselves  forthwith 
in  great  numbers.’ 

The  shrivelled  arm  of  Richard  III  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 
A duchess,  convicted  of  practicing  magic  against  the  king’s  life, 
was  compelled  to  do  penance  in  the  streets,  while  two  of  her  ser- 
vants were  executed.  Satan  with  his  feudatories  and  vassals  — 
cast  out  from  Olympus  and  Asgard,  outlawed  by  the  new  dynasty  — 
lurked  in  forest  and  mountain,  and  issuing  forth  only  after  night- 
fall, raised  the  desolating  tempest,  sent  the  pestilential  blast, 
and  kept  body  and  soul  together  by  an  illicit  traffic  between  this 
world  and  the  other.  The  fancy  that  once  lay  warm  about  the 
heart,  now  sends  a chill  among  the  roots  of  the  hair. 

So  flourished,  outwardly,  the  empire  of  Rome,  while  ideas 
became  the  occasions  of  superstition,  and  forms  of  ritualism  dis- 


THE  CHURCH  — HER  EXCESSES. 


241 


placed  a living  consciousness.  Religious  discourses,  without 
judgment  or  spirit,  were  a motley  mixture  of  gross  fiction  and 
extravagant  invention.  Practical  religion  was  a very  simple 
affair.  The  one  thing  needful  for  a sinner,  however  scandalous 
his  moral  life,  was  to  confess  regularly,  to  receive  the  sacrament, 
to  be  absolved.  If  sick,  or  ill  at  ease,  he  might  be  recommended 
to  some  wonder-working  image,  which  would  bow  when  it  was 
pleased,  and  avert  its  head  if  the  present  was  unsatisfactory. 
For  every  mass  — usually  bought  by  the  dozen  — so  many  years 
were  struck  off  from  the  penal  period.  The  rulers  of  the  Church, 
who  once  tamed  the  fiery  Northern  warriors  by  the  magic  of 
their  sanctity,  were  sunk  into  luxurious  indolence  and  vice.  The 
popes,  who  once  lived  to  remind  men  of  the  eternal  laws  which 
they  ought  to  obey,  were,  almost  without  exception,  worldly, 
intriguing,  and  immoral.  Several  were  murderers,  most  were 
plunderers,  one  was  poisoned  by  his  successor,  another  was  elect- 
ed by  menaces  and  bribes,  the  last  died  by  the  poison  he  had 
mingled  for  others  who  stood  in  the  way  of  his  greed  and  ambi- 
tion. Prelates,  cardinals,  and  abbots  were  occupied  chiefly  in 
maintaining  their  splendor.  The  friars  and  the  secular  clergy 
who  were  to  live  for  others,  not  for  themselves,  turned  their 
spiritual  powers  to  account  to  obtain  from  the  laity  the  means 
for  their  self-indulgence.  The  monks,  who  once  lived  in  an 
enchanted  atmosphere  of  piety  and  beneficence,  were  so  many 
herds  of  lazy,  illiterate,  and  licentious  Epicureans,  dividing  their 
hours  between  the  chapel,  the  tavern,  and  the  brothel, — all 
scheming  or  dreaming  on  the  eve  of  the  judgment  day!  The 
priesthood,  amenable  only  to  spiritual  judges,  extend  the  privi- 
leges of  their  order  till  clerk  was  construed  to  mean  any  one  who 
could  write  his  name  or  read  a sentence.  A robber  or  an  assassin 
had  only  to  show  that  he  could  do  either,  and  he  was  allowed 
what  was  called  the  ‘benefit  of  clergy.’ 

Now  consider  that  such  men  owned  a third  or  a half  of  the 
land  in  every  country  of  Europe,  while  they  confined  their  views 
in  life  to  opulence,  idleness,  and  feasting.  At  the  installation  of 
the  Archbishop  of  York,  brother  of  the  King-Maker,  there  were 
present  3,500  persons,  who  consumed,  104  oxen  and  6 wild  bulls, 
1,000  sheep,  304  calves,  as  many  hogs,  2,000  swine,  500  stags, 
bucks,  and  does,  204  kids,  22,802  wild  or  tame  fowls,  300  quar- 
16 


242 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


ters  of  corn,  300  tuns  of  ale,  100  of  wine,  a pipe  of  hippocras,  12 
porpoises  and  seals.  The  Commons  declared  that  with  the  rev- 
enues of  the  English  Church  the  king  would  be  able  to  maintain 
15  earls,  1,500  knights,  0,200  squires,  and  100  hospitals;  each 
earl  receiving  annually  300  marks,  each  knight  100  marks,  and 
the  produce  of  four  ploughed  lands;  each  squire  40  marks,  and 
the  produce  of  two  ploughed  lands. 

Was  not  a reformation  of  some  sort  an  overwhelming  neces- 
sity? So  felt  the  people,  who,  if  unable  to  comprehend  an  argu- 
ment, were  anxious  for  a correction  of  abuses.  So  felt  the  higher 
natures  who  led  them,  believing  in  justice,  in  righteousness, 
above  all  in  truth,  and  caring  not  to  live  unless  they  lived  nobly. 
So  felt  the  Church  — which  repressed  them,  by  entreaty,  by  re- 
monstrance, by  bribery,  by  force.  The  king  and  the  peers  allied 
themselves  with  the  ecclesiastics.  In  1400  the  Statute  of  Here- 
tics was  passed;  and  William  Santre,  a priest,  became  the  first 
English  martyr.  A tailor,  who  denied  transubstantiation  — ac- 
cused of  having  said  that,  if  it  were  true,  there  were  twenty 
thousand  gods  in  every  cornfield  in  England  — was  next  commit- 
ted to  the  flames.  A nobleman,  hung  on  the  gallows  with  a fire 
blazing  at  his  feet,  suffered  the  double  penalty  for  heresy  and 
treason.  Lollardism  was  crushed  by  the  weight  of  the  establish- 
ment above,  but  its  principles,  infecting  all  classes,  from  the  low- 
est to  the  highest,  were  working  a silent  revolution.  The  soft 
spring  green  withered  away,  but  its  roots  were  quick  in  the  soil. 
The  clergy  did  not  dream  that  the  storm  would  gather  again. 
For  a moment  they  were  startled  by  a statute  of  Henry  VII 
‘for  the  more  sure  and  likely  reformation  of  priests,  clerks,  and 
religious  men’;  but  again  the  cloud  disappeared,  and  again  they 
forgot  the  warning.  At  this  moment  the  Church,  ever  richer  and 
more  glittering,  dazzled  the  eyes  to  the  decay  of  its  substance, 
like  some  majestic  iceberg  drifting  southward  out  of  the  frozen 
North,  seemingly  stable  as  the  eternal  rocks,  while  down  in  the 
far  deeps  the  base  is  dissolving  and  the  centre  of  gravity  is 
changing. 

Learning. — Intellectual  life  disappeared  with  religious  lib- 
erty. Learning  declined,  especially  at  Oxford.  Her  scholars 
became  travelling  mendicants,  whose  academical  credentials  were 
at  times  turned  into  ridicule  and  mockery  by  the  insolence  of 


LEARNING  — THE  PRINTING  PRESS. 


243 


rank  and  wealth.  The  monasteries  were  no  longer  seats  of  cult- 
ure. Twenty  years  after  Chaucer’s  death,  an  Italian  traveller 
said: 

‘I  found  in  them  men  given  up  to  sensuality  in  abundance,  but  very  few  lovers  of 
learning,  and  those  of  a barbarous  sort,  skilled  more  in  quibbles  and  sophisms  than  in 
literature.’ 

Knowledge  was  a stagnant  morass  or  an  impenetrable  jungle. 
Literary  production  was  nearly  at  an  end.  Puerile  chroniclers, 
scribblers  of  prosaic  commonplaces,  translators  from  the  worn- 
out  field  of  French  romance,  give  some  distention  to  a period 
that  would  else  collapse.  An  occasional  gleam  of  genius  faintly 
illuminates  a date,  like  the  last  flicker  of  the  dying  day,  or  the 
pulse  of  the  early  dawn, — 

‘As  if  the  morn  had  waked,  and  then 
Shut  close  her  lids  of  light  again.’ 

In  the  nobler  elements  of  national  life,  a dreary  one-hundred 
years,  whose  chief  consolation  is,  that  the  downward  touches  the 
upward  movement;  that  everywhere  in  the  common  soil  — the 
unconsidered  people,  sustained  by  the  surviving  Saxon  charac- 
ter— lay  the  forces  of  which  fruit  should  come.  The  popular 
cast  of  authorship  shows  the  stir  of  a new  interest  among  the 
masses.  With  a paucity  of  writers,  in  no  former  age  were  so 
many  books  transcribed.  It  is  proof  of  an  increased  demand, 
that  the  process  of  copying  was  transferred  from  the  monastic  to 
the  secular  class.  And  it  was  this  transfer  that  led  to  the  intro- 
duction of  printing.  At  first  a secret  and  occult  art.  The 
monopolizers  dreaded  discovery,  and  the  workmen  were  bound 
to  secrecy  by  the  solemnity  of  an  oath.  After  their  opera- 
tions, the  four  sides  of  their  forms  were  cautiously  unscrewed, 
and  the  scattered  type  thrown  beneath,  for  ‘when  the  component 
parts  of  the  press  are  in  pieces,  no  one  will  understand  what  they 
mean.’  In  a mystical  style,  they  impressed  upon  the  wondering 
reader  that  the  volume  he  held  was  of  supernatural  origin,  an- 
nouncing merely  that  it  was  ‘neither  drawn,  nor  written  with  a 
pen  and  ink,  as  all  books  before  had  been.’  But  the  freemasonry 
was  lost,  the  printers  were  dispersed;  and  at  Cologne  a plain 
English  trader  — Caxton  — was  initiated  into  the  ‘noble  mystery 
and  craft.’  Very  proud  of  the  marvellous  freight  with  which  he 
returns  after  an  absence  of  five-and-thirty  years;  very  eager  in 


244 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


his  zeal  when  he  remembers  the  tedious,  weary  method  of  the 
Scriptorium,  hardly  equal  to  the  production  of  a hundred  Bibles 
in  seven  thousand  days;  almost  professing,  in  his  first  printed 
work,  to  have  performed  a miracle: 

‘I  have  practiced  and  learned,  at  my  great  charge,  to  put  in  order  this  said  book  in 
print  after  the  manner  and  form  as  ye  may  here  see ; and  is  not  written  with  pen  and  ink 
as  other  books  be,  to  the  end  that  every  man  may  have  them  at  once:  for  all  the  books  of 
this  story,  thus  imprinted  as  ye  see,  were  begun  in  one  day , and  also  finished  in  one  day.' 

Not  unwilling  to  keep  up  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  the  new 
implement  which  men  did  not  yet  comprehend.1 

In  1453,  the  Crescent  advanced  upon  the  city  of  Constantine, 
the  Greek  Empire  fell,  Greek  scholars  were  driven  westward, 
Greek  literature  and  art  were  forced  into  Italy;  and  Plato  lived 
again,  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  reformers.  His  mild  and  divine 
wisdom  was  at  war  with  the  sensuality  that  had  become  the  scan- 
dal of  the  Church  of  Rome.  ‘Beware  of  the  Greek,’  ran  the  cler- 
ical proverb,  ‘lest  you  be  made  a heretic.’  Italy  that  already,  in 
the  preceding  age,  had  appropriated  whatever  Latin  letters  con- 
tained of  strength  or  splendor  to  arouse  the  thought  and  fancy, 
became  the  school  of  Christendom.  Thither  repaired  the  men 
of  taste  or  genius  who  desired  to  share  the  newly-discovered 
privileges  of  antiquity;  and,  quickened  by  the  magnetic  touch, 
returned  with  a generous  ambition  to  vie  with  the  noble  ancients. 
Thence  the  stream  of  civilization  was  to  flow  as  from  its  fount. 
With  a fluctuating  movement,  the  life  current  extended  through- 
out Western  Europe,  England  being  among  the  latest  to  feel  it. 
When  gleams  of  the  revival  had  long  struggled  with  the  scholas- 
tic cloud,  the  Greek  language  began  to  be  taught  at  Oxford,  and 
about  1490  they  began  to  read  the  classics.  Thence  was  to  come 
every  science  and  every  elegance. 

Language. — The  emancipation  of  the  national  tongue  was 
now  confirmed  by  another  monarch.  Henry  V,  in  a missive  to 
the  craft  of  brewers,  declared: 

‘ The  English  tongue  hath  in  modern  days  begun  to  be  honorably  enlarged  and 
adorned;  and  for  the  better  understanding  of  the  people,  the  common  idiom  should  be 
exercised  in  writing.’ 


1 Who  first  taught  to  carve  the  letters  on  wooden  blocks— who  imagined  to  cast  the 
metal  with  fusil  types  distinct  one  from  the  other, — that  is,  for  Europe,  a German  romance 
with  the  opening  pages  forever  wanting.  Faust,  Schdffer,  Gutenberg,  Costar,  have  their 
jealous  votaries.  The  origin  of  some  of  the  most  interesting  inventions  is  lost  in  obscure 
traditions.  Perhaps  the  Chinese,  who  had  practiced  the  art  of  block-printing  for  nearly  two 
thousand  years,  suffered  it  to  steal  away  over  their  ‘great  wall.'  But  the  same  extraordi- 
nary invention  may  occur  at  distinct  periods.  Friar  Bacon  indicated  the  ingredients  of 
gunpowder  a hundred  years  before  the  monk  Schwartz,  about  1330,  actually  struck  out  the 
fiery  explosion. 


POETRY  — OCCLEVE  AND  LYDGATE. 


245 


We  further  learn  that  now  ‘ the  Lords  and  the  Commons  began 
to  have  their  proceedings  noted  down  in  the  mother-tongue.’ 
Both  this  prince  and  his  father  left  their  wills  in  the  native 
speech. 

Religious  diction,  always  in  a more  advanced  stage  of  culture 
than  was  the  secular,  made,  in  the  hands  of  Pecock,  considerable 
progress  in  vocabulary,  and  more  especially  in  logical  struc- 
ture. In  Fortescue  and  the  Nut-brown  Maul , there  is  not  only 
a diminution  of  obsolete  English,  but  a modern  cast  of  phrase 
and  arrangement  which  denotes  the  commencement  of  a new 
era.  There  was  little  occasion  for  decided  improvement  until 
new  conditions  of  society  should  create  a necessity  for  it. 

Poetry.  — In  the  mutability  of  taste,  the  ancient  romances 
were  turned  from  verse  into  prose.  They  had  pleased  as  pictures 
of  manners  still  existing,  but  the  correspondence  was  fading, 
while  there  was  yet  no  antiquarian  interest  to  preserve  their  hold 
on  the  public  mind  that  had  outgrown  them.  Indeed,  after  this 
literature  — prose  or  metrical  — had  entranced  for  three  centuries 
the  few  who  read  and  the  many  who  listened,  its  enchantment 
was  on  the  wane:  another  taste  — where  taste  existed  — was  now 
on  the  ascendant. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  the  impoverished  romance,  imitated  the 
hundredth  time,  compiled,  abridged,  even  modernized,  that 
chiefly  occupied  the  dull  rhymesters  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
After  the  heavy  platitudes  of  Gower  came  the  didactic  puerili- 
ties of  Occleve,  a lawyer,  who  says  truly  that  Chaucer,  whom  he 
strove  to  copy,  would  willingly  have  taught  him,  1 but  I was  dull , 
and  learned  little  or  nothing.'1  When  a man’s  only  merit  is  a 
fond  idolatry  of  his  master,  let  him  be  forgotten.  Then  Lydgate, 
a monk,  a long-winded  and  third-rate  poet,  who  manufactures 
verses  to  order,  for  the  king  and  his  subjects;  paraphrases  or 
translates,  as  others  have  done  with  more  grace  and  power,  The 
Fall  of  Princes , The  Destruction  of  Troy , and  The  Siege  of 
Thebes.  Here  and  there  is  a sublime  truth,  strongly  expressed, 
as  in  the  remarkable  lines: 

‘God  hath  a thousande  handes  to  chastyse, 

A thousande  dartes  of  punicion, 

A thousande  bowes  made  in  dyuers  wyse, 

A thousande  arrowblastes  bent  in  his  dongeon.’ 


[castle 


246 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Or  a descriptive  gem,  with  much  of  the  brilliancy  of  the  Italian: 

‘Tyli  at  the  last  amonge  the  bowes  glade 
Of  aduenture  I caught  a plesaunt  shade; 

Fill  smothe  and  playn  and  lusty  for  to  sene 
And  soft  as  veluet  was  the  yonge  grene : 

Where  fro  my  hors  I did  alisrht  as  fast, 

And  on  a bowe  aloft  his  reyne  cast. 

So  faynte  and  mate  of  werynesse  I was,  [ fatigued 

That  I me  layde  adowne  upon  the  gras, 

Upon  a bryncke,  shortly  for  to  tell, 

Besyde  the  ryuer  of  a cristall  welle; 

And  the  water,  as  I reherse  can, 

Like  quicke  sillier  in  his  streams  ran 
Of  whych  the  grauell  and  the  bryght  stone 
As  any  golde  agayne  the  sonne  shone.’ 

Or  a golden  couplet,  suggestive  of  the  coloring  and  melody  of 
later  times: 

‘Serpentes  and  adders,  scaled  syluer-bright, 

Were  ouer  Rome  sene  tlyeng  all  the  nyght.’ 

There  is  an  accent  of  originality  in  The  Dance  of  Death , whose 
mocking  and  grotesque  figures  dance  on  their  tomb  to  the  sound 
of  a fiddle  played  by  a grinning  skeleton;  or  a free  vein  of 
humor  in  The  Lack-penny , which  opens  the  street  scenery  of 
London : 

‘To  London  once  my  stepps  I bent, 

Where  trouth  in  no  wyse  should  be  faynt, 

To  Westmynster-ward  I forthwith  went, 

To  a man  of  law  to  make  complaynt; 

1 sayd,  “for  Mary's  love,  that  holy  saint! 

Pity  the  poore  that  wold  proceede”; 

But  for  lack  of  mony  I cold  not  spede. 

Then  unto  London  I dyd  me  hye, 

Of  all  the  land  it  beareth  the  pryse. 

“Hot  pescodes,”  one  began  to  crye, 

“Strabery  rype,  and  cherryes  in  the  ryse”; 

One  bad  me  come  nere  and  by  some  spyce, 

Peper  and  safforne  gan  me  bede,  [ began  to  offer  me 

But  for  lack  of  mony  I myght  not  spede. 

Then  to  the  Chepe  I began  me  drawne, 

Where  mutch  people  I saw  for  to  stand; 

One  ofred  me  velvet,  sylke,  and  lawne, 

An  other  he  taketh  me  by  the  hande, 

“Here  is  Parys  thread,  the  fynest  in  the  land”; 

I never  was  used  to  such  thyngs  indede, 

And  wanting  mony,  I might  not  spede. 

Then  went  I forth  by  London  stone, 

Throughout  all  Canwyke  streete; 

Drapers  mutch  cloth  me  offred  anone; 

Then  comes  me  one,  cryed  “Hot  shepes  feete” 

One  cryde  “makerell,”  “ryslies,”  “grene.”  an  other 
gan  greete; 


[rushes 

[cry 


POETRY  — BALLAD-SINGERS  — NUT  BROWN  MAID. 


247 


On  bad  me  by  a hood  to  cover  my  head, 

But  for  want  of  mony  I myght  not  be  sped. 

Then  I hyed  me  into  Est-Chepe; 

One  cryes  rybbs  of  befe,  and  many  a pye: 

Pewter  pottes  they  clattered  on  a heape; 

There  was  harpe,  pype,  and  mynstralsye. 

“Yea,  by  cock!  nay,  by  cock!”  some  began  crye; 

Some  songe  of  Jenken  and  Julyan  for  there  mede; 

But  for  lack  of  mony  I might  not  spede.  . . . 

The  taverner  tooke  me  by  the  sieve, 

“Sir,”  sayth  he,  “wyll  you  our  wyne  assay?” 

I answered,  “That  can  not  mutch  me  greve: 

A peny  can  do  no  more  harm  than  it  may;  ” 

I drank  a pynt,  and  for  it  did  paye, 

Yet  some  a hungerd  from  thence  I yede,  [ went 

And  wantying  money,  I cold  not  spede.’ 

As  for  the  rest, — tedious,  languid,  halting,  desolate.  There  are 
others.  You  may  find  them  by  the  dozen  in  Warton  or  Ritson, 
a crowd  of  worthless  and  forgotten  versifiers.  We  look  patiently 
for  something  to  exalt,  to  instruct,  or  to  please;  find  at  last  in 
the  royal  James,  of  Scotland, — 

‘Be  not  ouir  proude  in  thy  prosperitie. 

For  as  it  cummis,  sa  will  it  pass  away.’ 

and  in  Dunbar, — 

‘What  is  this  life  but  ane  straucht  way  to  deid, 

Whilk  has  a time  to  pass  and  nane  to  dwell?’ 

then  we  yawn,  and  go  away,  oppressed  with  the  surfeit  of  dreams 
and  abstractions,  used  up  and  barren. 

As  the  romances  declined,  the  lyric  which  sang  of  the  outlaw 
and  the  forest,  the  joys  and  woes  of  love,  and  later  of  the  wild 
border  life,  gradually  took  form.  The  ballad-singers  outlived  the 
troubadours,  but  their  songs,  long  stored  in  the  memories  of  the 
people,  reach  us  only  in  a late  edition  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
After  the  gloom  of  the  castle  and  the  conventionalism  of  the 
court,  it  is  refreshing  to  find  ourselves  in  the  open  air,  under  a 
blue  sky,  surrounded  by  persons  who  have  human  hearts  in  their 
bosoms.  Listen.  They  are  engaged  in  a battle  of  the  sexes,  in 
which  attacks  on  the  fair  are  parried  by  their  eulogies.  One  of 
the  heaviest  charges  is  the  imputed  fickleness  of  woman, — 

‘How  that  it  is 
A labour  spent  in  vayne. 

To  love  them  wele.1 

As  between  libel  and  panegyric,  you  are  requested  to  render  a 
verdict  in  accordance  with  the  evidence: 


248 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


lNow  I begyn 
So  that  ye  me  answere; 

Wherefore,  all  ye  that  present  be, 

I pray  you,  gyve  an  ere' 

In  order  to  try  the  maid’s  affection,  the  lover  tells  her  that  he  is 
condemned  to  a shameful  death,  and  must  withdraw  as  an  outlaw: 

‘Wherefore,  atlue,  my  ovvne  hart  true! 

None  other  rede  I can; 

For  I must  to  the  grene  vvocle  go, 

Alone,  a banyshed  man.1 


She. 

*0  Lord  what  is  thys  worldys  blysse, 

That  changeth  as  the  mono! 

My  somers  day  in  lusty  May 
Is  derked  before  the  none. 

I here  you  say,  Farewell:  Nay,  nay, 

We  depart  nat  so  sone. 

Why  say  ye  so?  wheder  wyll  ye  go? 
Alas!  what  have  ye  done? 

All  my  welfare  to  sorrowe  and  care 
Sholdc  chaunge,  yf  ye  were  gone; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I love  but  you  alone. 

He. 

I can  beleve,  it  shall  you  greve. 

And  somewhat  you  dystrayne; 

But  aftyrwarde,  your  paynes  harde 
Within  a day  or  twayne 
Shall  soon  aslake;  and  ye  shall  take 
Comfort  to  you  agayne. 

Why  sholde  ye  ought?  for,  to  make  thought, 
Your  labour  were  in  vayne. 

And  thus  I do;  and  pray  you  to 
As  hartely,  as  I can; 

For  I must  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a banyshed  man. 

She. 

Now,  syth  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 
The  secret  of  your  mynde, 

I shall  be  playne  to  you  agayne, 

Lyke  as  ye  shall  me  fynde. 

Syth  it  so,  that  ye  wyll  go, 

I wolle  not  leve  behynde : 

Shall  never  be  sayed,  the  Not-browne  Mayd 
Was  to  her  love  unkynde: 

Make  you  redy,  for  so  am  I, 

Allthough  it  were  anone; 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I love  but  you  alone. 


He. 

I counceyle  you,  remember  howe, 

It  is  no  maydens  lawe, 

Nothynge  to  dout,  but  to  renne  out 
To  wode  with  an  outlawe: 

For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  here 
A bowe,  redy  to  drawe; 

And,  as  a thefe,  thus  must  you  lyve 
Ever  in  drede  and  awe; 

Whereby  to  you  grete  harm  myght  growe; 
Yet  had  I lever  than, 

That  I had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a banyshed  man. 

She. 

I thinke  nat  nay,  but  as  ye  say, 

It  is  no  maydens  lore: 

But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake, 
As  I have  sayed  before 
To  come  on  fote,  to  hunt,  and  shote 
To  gete  us  mete  in  store; 

For  so  that  I your  company 
May  have,  I ask  no  more; 

From  which  to  part,  it  maketh  my  hart 
As  colde  as  any  stone: 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I love  but  you  alone. 

He. 

Yet  take  good  hede;  for  ever  I drede 
That  ye  coude  nat  sustayne 
The  thornie  wayes,  the  depe  valleies, 
The  snowe,  the  frost,  the  rayne. 

The  cold,  the  hete:  for  dry  or  wete, 

We  must  lodge  on  the  playne; 

And,  us  above,  none  other  rofe 
But  a brake  bush,  or  twayne: 

Which  soon  sholde  greve  you,  I beleve; 

And  ye  wolde  gladly  than 

That  I had  to  the  grene  wode  go, 

Alone,  a banyshed  man.1 


He  urges  that  she  will  have  no  wine  or  ale,  no  shelter  but  the 
trees,  no  society  but  their  enemies,  finally  that  another  already 


POETRY  — ROBIN'  HOOD. 


249 


awaits  him  in  the  forest  whom  he  loves  better;  still  her  constancy 
is  unshaken,  and  in  noble  admiration  he  confesses: 


‘Myne  ovvne  dere  love,  I se  the  prove 
That  ye  be  kynde,  and  true: 

Of  mayde,  and  wyfe,  in  all  my  lyfe. 
The  best  that  ever  I knewe.  . . . 

Be  nat  dismayed:  whatsoever  I sayd 
To  you,  whan  I began; 

I wyll  nat  to  the  srrene  wode  "o. 


I am  no  banyshed 

She. 

‘These  tydings  be  more  gladd  to  me 
Than  to  be  made  a quene, 

Yf  1 were  sure  they  sholde  endure: 

But  it  is  often  sene, 

Whan  men  wyll  breke  promyse,  they  speke 
The  wordes  on  the  splene. 

Ye  shape  some  wyle  me  to  begyle, 

And  stele  from  me,  I wene: 

Than  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was, 
And  I more  wo- begone: 

For,  in  my  mynde,  of  all  mankynde 
I love  but  you  alone. 


man.’ 

He. 

Ye  shall  not  nede  further  to  drede; 

I wyll  not  dysparage 

Yon  (God  defend!)  syth  ye  descend 

Of  so  grete  a lynage. 

Now  undyrstande;  to  Westmarlande, 
Which  is  myne  herytage, 

I wyll  you  brynge,  and  with  a rynge 
By  way  of  maryage 
I wyll  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  shortely  as  I can: 

Thus  have  you  now  an  erlys  son 
And  not  a banyshed  man.' 


Wherefore  pay  your  tribute  to  the  beautiful,  notwithstanding  the 
free  insinuations  of  the  cynic,  for, — 

Here  may  ye  se,  that  women  be 
In  love,  meke,  kynde,  and  stable: 

Late  never  man  reprove  them  then, 

Or  call  them  variable; 

But,  rather,  pray  God,  that  we  may 
To  them  be  comfortable.’ 


We  all  need  something  to  idealize.  Science,  literature,  art, 
music,  all  work  that  way,  this  for  one,  that  for  another.  In  the 
popular  ideal,  you  will  discover  the  national  character.  Here  it 
is  Robin  Hood , living  in  the  green  forest  free  and  bold,  ready  ta 
draw  his  bow  in  the  sheriff’s  face;  generous,  compassionate, 
giving  to  the  poor  the  spoils  of  the  rich;  religious,  after  the 
fashion, — 

‘A  good  maner  then  had  Robyn 
In  land  where  that  he  were, 

Every  daye  ere  he  wolde  dine 
Three  masses  wolde  he  hear;’ 

chivalrous  withal,  for  the  worship  of  the  Virgin  softens  the  tem- 
per of  the  outlaw, — 

‘Robyn  loved  our  dere  lady; 

For  doute  of  dedely  synne, 

Would  he  never  do  company  harme 
That  ony  woman  was  ynne.’ 


250 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Before  all,  fearless  and  valiant,  and  joyously  so,  the  champion  of 
the  commons  against  oppression,  civil  and  ecclesiastical.  4 It  is 
he,’  says  an  old  historian,  ‘whom  the  common  people  love  so 
dearly  to  celebrate  in  games  and  comedies,  and  whose  history, 
sung  by  fiddlers,  interests  them  more  than  any  other.’  Robin 
dreams,  ‘in  the  greenwood  where  he  lay,’  that  two  yeomen  are 
thrashing  him,  and  he  wants  to  go  and  find  them,  repulsing 
Little  John,  who  offers  to  lead  the  way: 

‘ “All ! John,  by  me  thou  settest  noe  store, 

And  that  I farley  finde; 

How  offt  send  I my  men  beffore, 

And  tarry  my  selfe  behinde?’’’ 

He  goes  alone,  and  meets  the  brave  Guy  of  Gisborne: 

‘“Good  morrow,  good  fellow,’’  said  Robin  so  fair, 

“Good  morrow,  good  fellow,”  quoth  he, 

“Methinks  by  the  bow  thou  bearest  in  thy  hand, 

A good  archer  thou  sliouldst  be.” 

“I  am  wandering  from  my  way,”  quoth  the  yeoman, 

“And  of  my  morning  tide.” 

“I’ll  lead  thee  thro’  the  wood,”  said  Robin, 

“Good  fellow,  I'll  be  thy  guide.” 

“I  seek  an  outlaw,”  the  stranger  said, 

“Men  call  him  Robin  Hood, 

Rather  I’d  meet  with  that  proud  outlaw 
Than  forty  pound  so  good.” 

“Now  come  with  me,  thou  lusty  yeoman, 

And  Robin  thou  soon  shall  see; 

But  first,  let  us  some  pastime  find, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree.” 

“Now  tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellow,”  quoth  he, 

“Under  the  leaves  of  lime.” 

“Nay,  by  my  faith,”  quoth  bold  Robin, 

“Till  thou  hast  told  me  thine.” 

“I  dwell  by  dale  and  down,”  quoth  he, 

“And  Robin  to  take  I’m  sworn, 

And  when  I’m  called  by  my  right  name, 

I'm  Guy  of  good  Gisborne.” 

“My  dwelling  is  in  this  wood,”  says  Robin, 

“By  thee  I set  right  nought; 

1 am  Robin  Hood  of  Barnesdale, 

Whom  thou  so  long  hast  sought.” 

He  that  to  neither  were  kith  or  kin 
Might  have  seen  a full  fair  sight, 

To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went, 

With  blades  both  brown  and  bright. 

To  see  how  these  yeomen  together  they  fought,  k 

Two  hours  of  a summer’s  day; 

Yet  neither  Sir  Guy  nor  Robin  Ilood 
Them  settled  to  fly  away.’ 


POETRY — THE  POPULAR  IDEAL. 


251 


These  redoubtable  archers  fight  very  amicably,  jovially,  hating 
only  traitors  and  tyrants.  Bold  Robin  is  the  representative  of  a 
class  who  revel  in  fighting  as  a pastime.  An  honest  exchange  of 
blows,  whoever  is  worsted,  always  prepares  the  way  for  fellowship 
and  respect: 

‘“1  pass  not  for  length,"  bold  Arthur  reply’d, 

“My  staff  is  of  oke  so  free; 

Eight  foot  and  a half,  it  will  knock  down  a calf, 

And  I hope  it  will  knock  down  thee." 

Then  Robin  could  no  longer  forbear. 

He  gave  him  such  a knock, 

Quickly  and  soon  the  blood  came  down 
Before  it  was  ten  a clock. 

Then  Arthur  he  soon  recovered  himself 
And  gave  him  such  a knock  on  the  crown, 

That  from  every  side  of  bold  Robin  Hood's  head 
The  blood  came  trickling  down. 

Then  Robin  raged  like  a wild  boar. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  his  own  blood: 

Then  Bland  was  in  hast,  lie  laid  on  so  fast, 

As  though  he  had  been  cleaving  of  wood. 

And  about  and  about  and  about  they  went, 

Like  two  wild  bores  in  a chase, 

Striving  to  aim  each  other  to  maim, 

Leg,  arm,  or  any  other  place. 

And  knock  for  knock  they  lustily  dealt, 

Which  held  for  two  hours  and  more, 

Till  all  the  wood  rang  at  every  bang, 

They  plyed  their  work  so  sore. 

“Hold  thy  hand,  hold  thy  hand,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

“And  let  thy  quarrel  fall ; 

For  here  we  may  thrash  our  bones  all  to  mesh, 

And  get  no  coyn  at  all. 

And  in  the  forest  of  merry  Sherwood, 

Hereafter  thou  shalt  be  free." 

“God  a mercy  for  nought,  my  freedom  I bought, 

I may  thank  my  staflE,  and  not  thee."  ’ 

When  the  bandit  and  his  antagonists  have  fought  to  the  defeat 
of  one  or  the  satisfaction  of  all,  they  embrace,  or  shake  hands, 
then  dance  together  on  the  green  grass: 

‘Then  Robin  took  them  both  by  the  hands, 

And  danc’d  round  about  the  oke  tree, 

“For  three  merry  men,  and  three  merry  men, 

And  three  merry  men  we  be."  ’ 

Will  the  discontent  of  such  men  be  overlooked?  They  conquer 
and  maintain  liberty  by  their  native  roughness.  Upon  the  haugh- 
tiest prince  they  impose  a restraint  stronger  than  any  which  mere 


252 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


laws  can  impose.  He  may  overstep  the  constitutional  line;  but 
they  will  exercise  the  like  privilege  whenever  his  encroachments 
are  so  serious  as  to  excite  alarm. 

Prose. — No  expansion  of  prose  is  possible,  until  the  realities 
of  life,  political,  social,  and  ecclesiastical,  can  be  safely  discussed. 
Thought  was  restrained  in  too  many  ways  to  allow  much  range 
of  exercise  beyond  the  unsubstantial  realm  of  poetry.  Hence  the 
prose  writers  of  the  period  are  not  numerous,  and,  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, are  unimportant.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  however,  that 
they  exhibit  three  new  kinds  of  composition, — epistolary,  politi- 
cal, and  aesthetic. 

The  Paston  Letters , written  chiefly  by  persons  of  rank  and 
condition,  contain  many  curious  specimens  of  correspondence 
belonging  to  this  and  the  preceding  century.  They  are  unique, 
and  give  an  interesting  picture  of  social  life.  In  one,  for  exam- 
ple, we  have  a glimpse  of  the  state  of  the  Norfolk  coast: 

‘On  Saturday  last  past,  Dravall,  half-brother  to  Warren  Harman,  was  taken  with 
enemies  walking  by  the  sea- side;  and  they  have  him  forth  with  them,  and  they  took 
two  pilgrims,  a man  and  a woman.  . . . God  give  grace  that  the  sea  may  be  better  kept 
than  it  is  now,  or  else  it  shall  be  a perilous  dwelling  by  the  seacoast.’ 

One  of  the  remarkable  features  of  the  age  was  the  incessant  liti- 
gation. Agnes  Paston  writes  to  one  of  her  sons: 

O 

1 1 greet  you  well,  and  advise  you  to  think  once  of  the  day  of  your  father's  counsel  to 
learn  the  law,  for  he  said  many  times  that  whosoever  should  dwell  at  Paston  should  have 
need  to  con  to  defend  himself.’ 

One  of  the  Pastons  is  reproved  for  his  extravagance  in  dress  and 
servants: 

‘It  is  the  guise  of  your  countrymen  to  spend  all  the  goods  they  have  on  men  and 
livery  gowns,  and  horse  and  harness,  and  so  bear  it  out  for  a while,  and  at  the  last  they 
are  but  beggars.’ 

It  would  appear  that  in  what  least  concerns  others,  others  most 
assiduously,  then  as  now,  intermeddled, — 

‘The  queen  came  into  this  town  on  Tuesday  last  past,  afternoon,  and  abode  here  till 
it  was  Thursday  afternoon;  and  she  sent  after  my  cousin  Elizabeth  Clerc,  to  come  to  her: 
and  she  durst  not  disobey  her  commandment,  and  came  to  her.  And  when  she  came  in 
the  queen’s  presence,  the  queen  made  right  much  of  l)er,  and  desired  her  to  have  an  hus- 
band, the  which  ye  shall  know  of  hereafter.  But  as  for  that  he  is  never  nearer  than  he 
was  before' 

It  seems  to  have  been  dangerous  to  write  freely;  and  an  opinion 
upon  passing  events  or  the  characters  of  men  was  usually  supple- 
mented by  some  such  sentence  as, — 


PROSE  — FORT  ESC  UE  — MALORY. 


253 


4 After  this  is  read  and  understood,  I pray  you  burn  or  break  it,  for  I am  loth  to  write 
anything  of  any  lord.’ 

The  profuse  liberality  of  parliament  in  voting  supplies  to  Edward 
IV  is  rebuked, — 

‘The  king  goeth  so  near  us  in  this  country,  both  to  poor  and  rich,  that  I wot  not  how 
we  shall  live,  unless  the  world  amend.’ 

The  first  to  weigh  and  explain  the  constitution  of  his  country 
was  Fortescue,  who  wrote,  in  exile,  a discourse  of  real  and  last- 
ing value  on  The  Difference  betioeen  an  Absolute  and  a Limited V 
Monarchy , in  which  the  state  of  France  under  a despot  is  con- 
trasted with  that  of  England.  He  says  to  the  young  prince 
whom  he  is  instructing: 

‘The  same  Commons  be  so  impoverished  and  distroyed,  that  they  may  unneth1  lyve. 
Thay  drink  water,  thay  eate  apples,  with  bred  right  brown  made  of  rye.  They  eate  no 
fleshe,  but  if  it  be  selden,  a litill  larde,  or  of  the  entrails  or  heds  of  bests  sclayne  for  the 
nobles  and  merchants  of  the  land.  They  weryn  no  wollyn,  but  if  it  be  a pore  cote  under 
their  uttermost  garment,  made  of  grete  canvass,  and  cal  it  a frok.  Their  hosyn  be  of  like 
canvas,  and  passen  not  their  knee,  wherfor  they  be  gartrid  and  their  thyghs  bare.  Their 
wifs  and  children  gone  bare  fote.  . . . For  sum  of  them,  t hat  was  wonte  to  pay  to  his 
lord  for  his  tenement  which  he  hyrith  by  the  year  a scute2  payth  now  to  the  kyng,  over 
that  scute,  fyve  skuts.  Wlicr  thrugh  they  be  artyd3  by  necessity  so  to  watch,  labour 
and  grub  in  the  ground  for  their  sustenance,  that  their  nature  is  much  wasted,  and  the 
kynd  of  them  brought  to  nowght.  Thay  gone  crokyd  and  ar  feeble,  not  able  to  fight  nor 
to  defend  the  realm;  nor  they  have  wepon,  nor  monye  to  buy  them  wepon  withal.  . . . 
This  is  the  frute  first  of  hyre  Jus  regale.  . . . But  blessed  be  God,  this  land  ys  rulid 
under  a better  lawe,  and  therfor  the  people  therof  be  not  in  such  penurye,  nor  therby 
hurt  in  their  persons,  but  they  be  wealthie  and  have  all  things  necessarie  to  the  suste- 
nance of  nature.  Wherefore  they  be  myghty  and  able  to  resyste  the  adversaries  of  the 
realms  that  do  or  will  do  them  wrong.  Loo,  this  is  the  frut  of  Jus  politicum  et  regale, 
under  which  we  lyve.’ 

In  the  decline  of  romantic  literature,  one  last  and  famous 
effort  was  made,  about  1470,  by  Sir  Thomas  Malory,  in  that 
tessellated  comjiilement  of  Morte  d Arthur,  whose  mottled  pieces, 
struck  from  the  vast  quarry  of  the  Round  Table,  are  squared 
together  by  no  unskilful  hand.  Its  style,  always  animated  and 
flowing,  mounts  occasionally  into  the  region  of  eloquence: 

‘Oh ! ye  mighty  and  pompous  lords,  winning  in  the  glories  transitory  of  this  unstable 
life,  as  in  reigning  over  great  realms  and  mighty  great  countries,  fortified  with  strong 
castles  and  towers,  edified  with  many  a rich  city;  yea  also,  ye  fierce  and  mighty  knights, 
so  valiant  in  adventurous  deeds  of  arms,  behold  ! behold ! see  how  this  mighty  conqueror. 
King  Arthur,  whom  in  his  human  life  all  the  world  dreaded,  yea  also  the  noble  Queen 
Gucnever,  which  sometime  sat  in  her  chair  adorned  with  gold,  pearls,  and  precious 
stones,  now  lie  full  low  in  obscure  foss,  or  pit,  covered  with  clods  of  earth  and  clay! 
Behold  also  this  mighty  champion,  Sir  Lancelot,  peerless  of  all  knighthood;  see  now  how 
he  lieth  grovelling  upon  the  cold  mould;  now  being  so  feeble  and  faint,  that  sometime 
was  so  terrible:  how,  and  in  what  manner,  ought  ye  to  be  so  desirous  of  worldly  honour 


1 Scarcely.  2About  three  shillings  and  fourpence.  3 Compelled. 


254 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


so  dangerous?  Therefore,  me  thinketh  this  present  book  is  right  necessary  often  to  be 
read;  for  in  all  ye  find  the  most  gracious,  knightly,  and  virtuous  war,  of  the  most  noble 
knights  of  the  world,  whereby  they  got  praising  continually;  also  me  seemeth,  by  the  oft 
reading  thereof,  ye  shall  greatly  desire  to  accustom  yourself  in  following  of  those  gra- 
cious knightly  deeds;  that  is  to  say,  to  dread  God  and  to  love  righteousness,  faithfully 
and  courageously  to  serve  your  sovereign  prince ; and,  the  more  that  God  hath  given  you 
the  triumphal  honour,  the  meeker  ought  ye  to  be,  ever  fearing  the  unstableness  of  this 
deceitful  world.1 

History. — The  science  of  true  history  had  yet  no  existence. 
All  facts  appeared  of  equal  worth,  for  all  alike  cost  the  same 
toil;  and,  still  dispersed  in  their  insulated  state,  still  refused 
combination.  But  the  day  had  now  arrived,  in  the  progress  of 
society,  when  chronicles  were  written  by  laymen.  The  first  in 
our  vernacular  prose  was  the  labor  of  a citizen  and  alderman, 
and  sometime  sheriff  of  London, — Hobert  Fabyan;  and  was 
designed  for  ‘the  unlettered  who  understand  no  Latin.’  In  the 
accustomed  mode,  he  fixes  the  historic  periods  by  dates  from 
Adam  or  from  Brut,  and  composing  in  the  spirit  of  the  day, 
mentions  the  revolutions  of  government  with  the  same  brevity 
as  he  speaks  of  the  price  of  wheat  and  poultry;  passes  unnoticed 
his  friend  Caxton,  to  speak  of  ‘a  new  weathercock  placed  on  the 
cross  of  St.  Paul’s  steeple’;  tells  us  that  of  the  French  monarch’s 
dress  ‘ I might  make  a long  rehearsal ’;  finds  the  level  of  his 
faculties  in  recording  ‘flying  dragons  in  the  air,’  or  describing 
the  two  castles  in  space,  whence  issued  two  armies  black  and 
white,  combating  in  the  skies  till  the  white  vanished.  Of  Cabot’s 
voyage  of  discovery,  under  the  patronage  of  Henry  VII,  he  says 
curiously: 

‘There  were  brought  King  Henry  three  men,  taken  in  the  new  found  island;  they 
were  clothed  in  beast’s  skins,  and  did  eat  raw  flesh,  and  spake  such  speech  as  that  no 
man  could  understand  them:  and  in  their  demeanor  were  like  brute  beasts;  whom  the 
King  kept  a time  after.  Of  the  which  about  two  years  after,  I saw  two,  apparelled  after 
the  manner  of  Englishmen,  in  Westminster  palace,  which  at  that  time  I could  not  discern 
from  Englishmen,  till  I was  learned  what  they  were.  But  as  for  speech  I heard  none  of 
them  utter  one  word.1 

Superstition  has  always  attached  to  numbers.  Seven , or  the 
heptad,  is  very  powerful  for  good  or  for  evil,  and  belongs  espe- 
cially to  sacred  things.  The  good  man’s  chronicle,  opens  with 
an  invocation  for  help,  is  in  seven  unequal  divisions,  and  ends 
with  seven  cheering  epilogues  in  unmetrical  metre,  entitled  The 
Seven  Joys  of  the  Virgin. 

Theology. — All  knowledge  was  claimed  as  a part  of  theol- 
ogy, and  all  questions  were  decided  by  scholastic  rules.  What- 


SCHOLASTIC  THEOLOGY. 


255 


ever  was  old,  was  divine  ; whatever  was  new,  was  suspected. 
Never  had  the  schools  of  divinity  made  a more  miserable  figure. 
Teachers  and  students  loaded  their  memories  with  unintelligible 
distinctions  and  unmeaning  sounds,  that  they  might  discourse 
and  dispute,  with  the  semblance  of  method,  upon  matters 
which  they  did  not  understand.  They  still  discussed  whether 
God  could  have  taken  any  form  but  that  of  man, — as,  for  in- 
stance, that  of  a woman,  of  the  devil,  of  an  ass,  of  a cucumber, 
of  a flint.  If  of  a cucumber,  how  could  He  have  preached, 
wrought  miracles,  or  been  crucified?  Whether  Christ  could  be 
called  a man  while  on  the  cross;  whether  the  pope  shared  both 
natures  with  Christ;  whether  the  Father  could  in  any  case  hate 
the  Son;  whether  the  pope  was  greater  than  Peter,  and  a thou- 
sand other  niceties  more  subtle.  There  now  remained  few  of 
those  who  proved  and  illustrated  doctrine  by  the  positive  dec- 
larations of  Scripture;  but  upon  them  as  upon  the  pedants,  the 
mechanical  manner  of  arguing  and  replying  imposes  its  servitude. 
The  moment  they  begin  to  reflect,  Aristotle  and  the  army  of  the 
ancients,  flanked  by  the  definition  and  the  syllogism,  enter  their 
brains,  and  construct  monstrous,  sleep-inspiring  books.  Hear  the 
worthy  Pecock,  on  whose  unconscious  shoulders  had  fallen  the 
mantle  of  Wycliffe.  Thirteen  propositions  are  to  be  demon- 
strated in  the  approved  style: 

‘An  argument  if  he  be  ful  and  foormal,  which  is  clepid  a sillogisme,  is  mad  of  twey 
proposiciouns  dryuing  out  of  hem  and  bi  strengthe  of  hem  the  thridde  proposicioun.  Of 
the  whiche  thre  proposiciouns  the  ij.  first  ben  clepid  premissis,  and  the  iij.  foiewing  out  of 
hem  is  clepid  the  conclusioun  of  hem.  And  the  firste  of  tho  ij.  premissis  is  clepid  the  first 
premisse,  and  the  ij.  of  hem  is  clepid  the  ij.  premisse.  And  ech  such  argument  is  of  this 
kinde,  that  if  the  botlie  premissis  ben  trewe,  the  conclusioun  concludid  out  and  bi  hem  is 
also  trewe;  and  but  if  euereither  of  tho  premissis  be  trewe,  the  conclusioun  is  not  trewe. 
Ensample  her  of  is  this.  “Ech  man  is  at  Rome,  the  Pope  is  a man,  eke  the  Pope  is  at 
Rome.”  Lo  here  ben  sett  forth  ij.  proposiciouns,  which  ben  these,  “Ech  man  is  at 
Rome;”  and  “The  Pope  is  a man;”  and  these  ben  the  ij.  premyssis  in  this  argument, 
and  thei  dryuen  out  the  iij.  proposicioun,  which  is  this,  “ The  Pope  is  at  Rome,”  and  it  is 
the  conclusioun  of  the  ij.  premissis.  Wherefore  certis  if  eny  man  can  be  sikir  for  eny 
tyme  that  these  ij.  premyssis  be  trewe,  he  may  be  sikir  that  the  conclusion  is  trewe; 
though  alle  the  aungelis  in  heuen  wolden  seie  and  holde  that  thilk  conclusioun  were  not 
trewe.  And  this  is  a general  reule,  in  euery  good  and  formal  and  ful  argument,  that  if 
his  premissis  be  knowe  for  trewe,  the  conclusioun  oughte  to  be  avowid  for  trewe,  what 
euer  creature  wole  seie  the  contrarie. 

But  as  for  now  thus  miche  in  this  wise  ther  of  here  talkid,  that  y be  the  better 
vndirstonde  in  al  what  y schal  argue  thorugh  this  present  book,  y wole  come  doun  into 
the  xiij.  conclusiouns,  of  whiche  the  firste  is  this:  It  longith  not  to  Holi  Scripture, 
neither  it  is  his  office  into  which  God  hath  him  ordeyned,  neither  it  is  his  part  forto 
grovnde  eny  gouernaunce  or  deede  or  seruice  of  God,  or  eny  lawe  of  God,  or  eny  trouthe 


256 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


which  mannis  resoun  bi  nature  may  fynde,  leerne,  and  knowe.  That  this  conclusioun  is 
trewe,  y proue  thus:  Whateuer  thing  is  ordeyned,  &C.1 

Enough.  You  are  spared  the  dreary  length,  the  wandering 
mazes,  of  the  remainder.  With  all  this  display  of  logical  tools, 
he  was  unable  to  see  in  what  direction  he  was  marching ; for 
while  he  assailed  the  heretical  opinions  of  the  Lollards,  he  ad- 
mitted that  general  councils  were  not  infallible,  that  the  Bible 
was  the  true  rule  of  faith,  that  religious  dogmas  were  to  be  sup- 
ported by  argument,  not  by  the  bare  decree  of  authority.  His 
well-meant  defence  of  the  Church  was,  in  reality,  a formidable 
attack  upon  its  foundations.  His  Repressor  was  burnt,  he  was 
degraded,  compelled  to  recant,  and  confined  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  in  a conventual  prison. 

As  long  as  visible  images  form  the  channels  of  religious  devo- 
tion, the  true  history  of  theology,  or  at  least  of  its  emotional  and 
realizing  parts,  may  be  found  in  the  history  of  art.  The  steady 
tendency  of  European  art  in  the  fifteenth  century  was  to  give  an 
ever-increasing  preeminence  to  the  Father,  to  dilate  upon  the 
vengeance  of  the  Day  of  Judgment,  to  present  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  faithful,  in  new  and  horrible  conceptions,  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  martyrs  on  earth  or  of  the  lost  in  hell. 

Ethics. — As  in  the  dearth  of  genius,  there  were  no  philoso- 
phers, so  there  were  no  philosophic  expositions  of  duty,  and 
hence  no  definite  ethical  system  distinct  from  theological  teach- 
ing. Moral  culture  was,  of  course,  the  main  function  of  the 
clergy,  from  the  state  of  whose  discipline  at  this  time  we  may 
fairly  estimate  the  fidelity  and  efficiency  of  their  instruction. 
The  ideal  of  life  and  character  was  yet  ecclesiastical.  It  was 
too  early  for  a purely  moral  faith,  appealing  to  a disinterested 
sense  of  virtue  and  perception  of  excellence,  to  be  efficacious. 
Rites  and  ceremonies,  an  elaborate  creed  and  a copious  legen- 
dary, were  the  appointed  means  for  developing  the  emotional 
side  of  human  nature  and  securing  a rectitude  of  conduct.  The 
formation  of  a moral  philosophy  is  usually  the  first  step  in  the 
decadence  of  dogmatic  religions. 

Science. — Those  who  turned  their  attention  to  mathematics 
or  physics,  still  pursued  the  bewildering  dreams  of  astrology 
and  alchemy.  An  Act  of  1456,  for  example,  in  favor  of  three 


DREAMS  OF  SCIENCE  — FAILURE  OF  PHILOSOPHY. 


257 


alchemists,  describes  the  object  of  these  ‘famous  men’  to  be  ‘a 
certain  most  precious  medicine,  called  by  some  the  mother  and 
queen  of  medicines;  by  some  the  inestimable  glory;  by  others 
the  quintessence;  by  others  the  philosopher’s  stone;  by  others 
the  elixir  of  life;  which  cures  all  curable  diseases  with  ease,  pro- 
longs human  life  in  perfect  health  and  vigor  of  faculty  to  its 
utmost  term,  heals  all  healable  wounds,  is  a most  sovereign  anti- 
dote against  all  poisons,  and  is  capable  of  preserving  to  us,  and 
our  kingdom,  other  great  advantages,  such  as  the  transmutation 
of  other  metals  into  real  and  fine  gold  and  silver.’ 

The  art  of  medicine  appears  to  have  made  little  or  no  prog- 
ress. It  was  still,  to  some  extent,  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy. 
The  priests,  because  they  were  able  to  read  the  Greek  and 
Roman  authors  on  medicine,  had,  all  through  the  dark  ages, 
been  the  principal  physicians.  They  became  intimate  with  the 
barbers  by  frequently  employing  them  to  shave  their  heads, 
according  to  the  uniform  of  the  clerical  order.  The  barbers  were 
also  employed  to  shave  the  heads  of  patients,  when  washes  were 
prescribed  to  cool  the  fevered  brain,  or  blisters  were  applied  to 
draw  the  peccant  humors  from  the  surface.  Found  expert  and 
handy  with  edged  tools,  the  priests  taught  them  to  bleed,  and  to 
perform  such  minor  operations  as  they  were  competent  to  direct, 
as  well  as  to  make  salves  and  poultices,  and  dress  wounds  and 
sores.  Edward  IV,  in  1461,  granted  a charter  of  incorporation 
and  privilege  to  barber-surgeons;  nor,  though  the  distinct  nature 
of  the  two  became  gradually  more  apparent,  was  the  tonsorial 
art  severed  completely  from  the  surgical  till  nearly  three  centu- 
ries had  elapsed.  ‘Would  heart  of  man  e’er  think  it,  but  you’ll 
be  silent.’ 

Philosophy.  — The  race  of  great  Schoolmen  had  died  out, 
and  the  schools  only  repeated  and  maintained,  with  ever-increas- 
ing emptiness,  what  their  founders  had  taught.  The  whole 
science  of  dialectic  was  degraded  into  an  elaborate  and  ingenious 
word-quibbling.  Like  religion,  it  had  no  other  substance  but 
one  of  words.  Syllogisms  were  sold  like  fish,  by  the  string,  and 
descended,  like  silver  shoe-buckles,  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion. Scholasticism  was  self-extinguished  in  a period  of  bar- 
barity into  whose  darkness  the  light  of  the  Renaissance  was 
destined  soon  to  shine  with  regenerating  effect.  What  had  the 
17 


258 


RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


laborers  accomplished?  — If  from  heart  or  brain  they  educed  no 
great  original  creed,  they  produced  a ferment  of  intellectual 
activity  such  as  Europe  had  never  seen.  Through  the  long, 
terrible  night  which  threatened  the  extinction  of  scholarship, 
they  kept  alive  the  spirit  of  culture  in  the  whirlwind  of  energy. 
Disputation,  if  it  adds  no  single  idea  to  the  human  mind,  is 
better  than  indolence.  In  action,  rather  than  in  cognition,  lie 
life  and  acquirement.  The  highest  value  of  truth  is  less  in  the 
possession  than  in  the  pursuit  of  it.  Could  you  ever  establish  a 
theory  of  the  universe,  that  were  entire  and  final,  man  were  then 
spiritually  defunct.  The  one  justifying  service  of  metaphysics, 
in  whosesoever  hands,  is  subjective, — the  upward  aspirations  it 
may  kindle,  and  the  habits  of  close,  patient,  vigorous  thought  it 
may  form.  As  for  its  efforts  to  lift  the  veil  from  the  mystery  of 
being,  they  are  the  labor  of  the  struggling  and  baffled  Sisyphus, 
who  rolls  up  the  heavy  stone  which  no  sooner  reaches  a certain 
point  than  down  it  rolls  to  the  bottom,  and  all  the  labor  is  to 
begin  again.  There  is  scarcely  anything  which  modern  philos- 
ophers have  proudly  brought  forward  as  their  own  that  may  not 
be  found  in  some  one  or  other  of  the  mighty  tomes  of  the 
hooded  Scholastics.  Why  not?  Were  they  not  the  posterity 
of  Plato  and  Aristotle,  out  of  whom  come  all  things  yet  debated 
among  men  of  reflection  ? 

‘In  countless  upward-striving  waves 
The  moon-drawn  tide-wave  strives: 

In  thousand  far- transplanted  grafts 
The  parent  fruit  survives.’ 

Resume. — The  throb  of  hope  and  glory  which  pulsed  at 
the  outset,  died  into  inaction  or  despair.  Disputed  successions, 
cruel  factions,  family  feuds,  convulsed  the  land,  till  the  political 
crisis  was  terminated  by  Henry  VII,  who,  as  the  authority  of 
the  potent  aristocracy  declined,  established  that  despotic  regality 
which  remained  as  the  inheritance  of  the  dynasty  of  the  Tudors. 

Commerce  widened,  material  life  went  on,  darkly,  without  the 
diviner  elements  of  national  progress.  The  intellect,  unable  to 
proceed  in  the  path  of  creative  literature,  fell  back  into  lethargy. 
Inquiry  was  repressed;  originality  was  replaced  by  submission; 
the  reformation  was  trodden  out;  in  the  clash  of  arms  the  voice 
of  genius  sank  to  feebleness  or  was  hushed  to  silence;  and  the 
reactionary  influence  of  vice,  ignorance,  and  superstition,  was  in 


OUR  FIRST  PRINTER. 


259 


the  ascendant.  The  Church  shrivelled  into  a self-seeking  secular 
priesthood;  practical  religion  was  reduced  to  the  accomplishment 
of  ceremonies;  and  mankind,  slothful  and  crouching,  resigned 
their  conscience  and  their  conduct  into  the  hands  of  the  clergy, 
and  they  into  the  hands  of  the  pope. 

The  century,  however,  was  not  lost.  It  was  an  age  of  accu- 
mulation and  preparation,  as  indeed  it  was  in  every  country  of 
Europe.  The  commoners  maintained  their  liberties,  without 
going  beyond,  and  waited  for  a better  day.  The  Reformation, 
like  a forest  conflagration,  smouldered.  America  was  added  to 
the  map;  and  while  thought  was  startled  by  the  sudden  rarity 
of  a New  World,  with  its  fresh  hopes  and  romantic  realms,  the 
Renaissance  was  restoring  an  old  one,  with  its  eternal  promoters 
of  freedom  and  beauty.  In  that  twilight  time  was  dawning  the 
great  Invention  that  should  give  to  Letters  and  Science  the  pre- 
cision and  durability  of  the  printed  page.  Nor  was  the  press 
to  be  more  fatal  to  the  dominion  of  the  priestly  bigot  than  the 
bullet  to  the  sway  of  the  mailed  knight.  In  the  upheaval  of 
the  old  feudal  order,  an  arrogant  nobility  was  sinking  to  a level 
more  consistent  with  national  unity.  Separate  centres  of  in- 
trigue were  breaking  up,  society  was  pulverizing  afresh;  poetry, 
like  the  ballad,  was  returning  to  the  human  interests  of  the 
present,  and  the  night  of  medievalism  was  drawing  to  a close 
amid  the  chaos  which  precedes  the  resurrection  morn. 


CAXTON. 

O Albion!  still  thy  gratitude  confess 
To  Caxton,  founder  of  the  British  Press: 

Since  first  thy  mountains  rose,  or  rivers  flow’d, 

Who  on  thy  isles  so  rich  a boon  bestow’d? — M'Creery. 

Biography. — A native  of  Kent,  born  in  1412;  apprenticed 
at  an  early  day  to  a London  silk  dealer:  after  his  master’s  death 
he  lived  — perhaps  as  consul  or  agent  for  the  English  merchants 
- — in  Holland  and  Flanders;  while  there,  was  appointed,  by  his 
sovereign,  envoy  to  the  court  of  Burgundy  to  negotiate  a treaty 
of  commerce;  entered  the  service  of  an  English  princess  as  copy- 


260  RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHOR. 


ist;  threw  aside  the  tedious  process  of  the  pen  for  the  newly- 
discovered  art,  and  became  a printer,  because  — 

‘My  pen  is  worn,  my  hand  weary  and  not  steadfast,  mine  eyes  dimmed  with  over- 
much looking  on  the  white  paper,  and  my  courage  not  so  prone  and  ready  to  labor  as 
it  hath  been,  and  that  age  creepeth  on  me  daily  and  feebleth  all  the  body,  and  also 
because  I have  promised  to  divers  gentlemen  and  to  my  friends  to  address  to  them  as 
hastily  as  I might  the  said  book.’ 

Absent  more  than  thirty  years,  he  returned  to  England  with  the 
precious  freight  of  the  printing-press;  and  at  an  age  when  other 
men  seek  ease  and  retirement,  plunged  with  characteristic  energy 
into  his  new  occupation,  until  his  decease  in  1492. 

Writings.  — Sixty-five  works,  edited  or  translated,  are  as- 
signed to  the  pen  and  the  press  of  Caxton:  in  French,  two;  in 
Latin,  seven;  the  remainder  in  English.  He  published  all  the 
native  poetry  of  any  moment  then  in  existence, — the  poems  of 
Chaucer,  Lydgate,  and  Gower;  two  chronicles,  revising  both,  and 
continuing  one  up  to  his  own  time;  a version  of  the  FEneid,  or 
a tract  of  Cicero,  as  the  stray  first-fruits  of  classic  antiquity;  and, 
with  an  eye  to  business,  manuals  for  ecclesiastics,  sermons  or 
Golden  Legends , — Tales  of  Troy , or  Morte  d' Arthur , for  the 
baron  and  the  knight, — ^Esop's  Fables  and  Reynard  the  Fox , 
for  the  populace. 

His  Game  of  Chess , a translation  from  the  French,  Hynysshid 
the  last  day  of  Marche,  1474,’  is  assumed  to  be  the  first  book 
printed  on  English  ground;  and  a second  edition,  the  first  illus- 
trated with  wood-cuts.  As  the  aged  Saxon  expired  dictating  the 
last  words  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  John , — 

‘In  the  hour  of  death, 

The  last  dear  service  of  his  parting  breath,’ — 

so  did  the  old  printer  carry  forward  his  last  labor,  on  a volume  of 
sacred  lore,  to  the  setting  sun  of  a life  that  bore  its  burden  of 
four-score.  He  dipped,  ‘ half  desperate,’  into  that  vast  and  sin- 
gular mythology  which  for  fourteen  centuries  grew  and  shadowed 
over  the  religious  mind  of  Christendom  as  its  form  of  hero-wor- 
ship, always  simple,  often  childish,  but  always  good,  and  there- 
fore suited  to  the  taste  and  information  which  it  measured  and  to 
which  it  was  addressed.  In  this  manner  was  the  unquiet  world 
once  charmed  to  rest,  saintly  emulation,  and  remembrance  of 
God: 

‘Francis,  servant  and  friend  of  Almighty  God,  was  born  in  the  city  of  Assyse,  and 
was  made  a merchant  unto  the  twenty -fifth  year  of  his  age,  and  wasted  his  time  by  living 


OUR  FIRST  PRINTER. 


261 


vainly,  whom  our  Lord  corrected  by  the  scourge  of  sickness,  and  suddenly  changed  him 
into  another  man,  so  that  he  began  to  shine  by  the  spirit  of  prophecy.  On  a time  as  this 
holy  man  was  in  prayer,  the  devil  called  him  thrice  by  his  own  name.  And  when  the 
holy  man  had  answered  him,  he  said : “ None  in  this  world  is  so  great  a sinner,  but  if  he 
convert  him,  our  Lord  would  pardon  him ; but  who  that  sleeth  himself  with  hard  penance, 
shall  never  find  mercy.”  And  anon,  this  holy  man  knew  by  revelation  the  fallacy  and 
deceit  of  the  fiend,  how  he  would  have  withdrawn  him  fro  to  do  well.  And  when  the 
devil  saw  that  he  might  not  prevail  against  him,  he  tempted  him  by  grievous  temptation 
of  the  flesh.  And  when  this  holy  servant  of  God  felt  that,  he  despoiled  his  clothes,  and 
beat  himself  right  hard  with  an  hard  cord,  saying:  “Thus,  brother  ass,  it  behoveth  thee 
to  remain  and  to  be  beaten.”  And  when  the  temptation  departed  not,  he  went  out  and 
plunged  himself  in  the  snow,  all  naked,  and  made  seven  great  balls  of  snow,  and  purposed 
to  have  taken  them  into  his  body,  and  said:  “This  greatest  is  thy  wife;  and  these  four, 
two  ben  thy  daughters,  and  two  thy  sons ; and  the  other  twain,  that  one  thy  chambrere, 
and  that  other  thy  varlet  or  yeman;  haste  and  clothe  them;  for  they  all  die  for  cold.  And 
if  thy  business  that  thou  hast  about  them,  grieve  ye  sore,  then  serve  our  Lord  perfectly.” 
And  anon,  the  devil  departed  from  him  all  confused;  and  St.  Francis  returned  again  unto 
his  cell  glorifying  God.  ...  He  was  ennobled  in  his  life  by  many  miracles:  and  the  very 
death,  which  is  to  all  men  horrible  and  hateful,  he  admonished  them  to  praise  it.  And 
also  he  warned  and  admonished  death  to  come  to  him,  and  said:  “Death,  my  sister,  wel- 
come be  you.”  And  when  he  came  at  the  last  hour,  he  slept  in  our  Lord;  of  whom  a 
friar  saw  the  soul,  in  manner  of  a star,  like  to  the  moon  in  quantity,  and  the  sun  in  clear- 
ness.’ 

Style.  — His  diction,  never  the  purest,  could  scarcely  have 
been  improved  by  absence.  A man  destitute  of  a literary  educa- 
tion could  hardly  attain  to  any  felicity  or  skill  in  an  idiom  to 
which  he  was  almost  a foreigner.  Plain  and  verbose,  his  manner 
is  that  of  one  who  with  no  brilliancy  of  talent,  tries  faithfully 
to  make  himself  understood.  It  is  full  of  Gallicisms,  however,  in 
vocabulary  and  phrase.  We  learn  by  the  preface  to  his  JEneid 
that  there  were  ‘gentlemen  who  of  late  have  blamed  me,  that  in 
my  translations  I had  over-curious  terms  which  could  not  be 
understood  by  common  people.’  Critics,  no  doubt,  were  abun- 
dant, when  as  yet  there  was  no  generally  recognized  standard; 
and  he  himself  had  neither  the  judgment  nor  the  force  to  har- 
monize the  heterogeneous  elements.  It  is  curious  to  see  in  his 
own  words  the  unsettled  state  of  the  language,  the  affectation 
of  some  and  the  pedantry  of  others.  ‘ Some  honest  and  great 
clerks,’  he  tells  us,  ‘have  been  with  me,  and  desired  me  to  write 
the  most  curious  terms  I could  find.’  Others,  again,  ‘desired  me 
to  use  old  and  homely  terms  in  my  translations.’  But  ‘I  took  an 
old  book  and  read  therein,  and  certainly  the  English  was  so  rude 
and  broad  I could  not  well  understand  it.’  ‘Fain  would  I please 
every  man,’  is  his  helpless  but  good-natured  comment.  Of  the 
rapid  flux  of  even  common  speech : ‘ Our  language  now  used 
varieth  far  from  that  which  was  used  and  spoken  when  I was 


262  RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHOR. 


born.’  Not  only  so,  but  the  tongue  of  each  shire  had  marked 
peculiarities: 

‘ In  my  days  happened  that  certain  marchauntes  were  in  a shippe  in  Tamyse  for  to 
haue  sayled  over  the  see  into  Zclande,  and  fra  lacke  of  wynde  thei  taryed  at  Forland,  and 
went  to  lande  for  to  refreshe  them.  And  one  of  theym,  named  ShefEelde,  a mercer,  came 
into  an  hows  and  axyed  for  mete,  and  specyally  he  axyed  after  eggys;  and  the  good  wyf 
answerde  that  she  coude  speke  no  Frenshe,  and  the  marchaunt  was  angry,  for  he  also 
coude  speke  no  Frenshe,  but  wolde  have  had  eggys,  and  she  understood  hym  not.  And 
then,  at  laste,  another  sayd  hat  he  would  have  eyren.  Then  the  good  wyf  sayd  that  she 
understood  hym  wel.  Loo,  what  sholde  a man  in  theyse  days  now  wryte,  egges  or  eyren! 
Certaynly,  it  is  hard  to  playse  every  man,  because  of  diversite  and  chaunge  of  langage.' 

Rank. — That  he  was  a man  of  some  eminence  is  shown  by 
his  royal  connections  in  service.  To  the  historian  of  the  human 
mind,  he  appears  as  an  indifferent  translator,  and  a printer  with- 
out erudition.  That  he  should  have  been  acquainted  with  French 
and  German  was  inevitable  from  his  continental  residence.  That 
he  was  unacquainted  with  classic  Latin  is  evident  from  a refer- 
ence to  Skelton,  whom  he  mentions  as  ‘one  that  had  read  Virgil, 
Ovid,  Tully,  and  all  the  other  noble  poets  and  orators  to  me  un- 
known? With  the  industry  to  keep  pace  with  his  age,  he  had 
not  the  genius  to  create  a national  taste  by  his  novel  and  mighty 
instrument  of  thought.  At  a loss  what  author  to  select,  his 
choice  might  seem  to  have  been  frequently  accidental.  With 
simple-hearted  enthusiasm,  he  says  of  his  version  of  Virgil: 

4 Having  no  work  in  hand,  I sitting  in  my  study  where  as  lay  many  divers  pamphlets 
and  books,  happened  that  to  my  hand  came  a little  book  in  French,  which  late  was 
translated  out  of  Latin  by  some  noble  clerk  of  France— which  book  is  named  “Eney- 
dos,”  and  made  in  Latin  by  the  noble  poet  and  great  clerk  Vergyl— in  which  book  I had 
great  pleasure  by  reason  of  the  fairc  and  honest  termes  and  wordes  in  French  which  I 
never  saw  to-fore-like,  none  so  pleasant  nor  so  well  ordered,  which  book  as  me  seemed 
should  be  much  requisite  for  noble  men  to  see,  as  well  for  the  eloquence  as  the  histo- 
ries; and  when  I had  advised  me  to  this  said  book  I deliberated  and  concluded  to  trails, 
late  it  into  English,  and  forthwith  took  a pen  and  ink  and  wrote  a leaf  or  twain.’ 

His  simplicity  far  exceeded  his  learning.  He  solemnly 
vouched  for  the  verity  of  Jason  and  the  Golden  Fleece , The 
Life  of  Hercides , and  all  ‘the  Merveilles  of  Virgil’s  Necro- 
mancy’! For  a moment,  ‘the  noble  history  of  King  Arthur’ 
puzzled  him,  because  — 

‘ Dyuers  men  holde  opynyon,  that  there  was  no  suche  Arthur,  and  that  alle  suche 
bookes  as  been  maad  of  hym,  ben  but  fayned  and  fables,  by  cause  that  somme  cronycles 
make  of  him  no  mencyon  ne  remembre  hym  noo  thynge  ne  of  his  knyghtes.’ 

But  his  sudden  scruples  were  relieved  when  assured  — 

‘That  in  hym  that  shold  say  or  thynke  that  there  was  neuer  suche  a kyng  callyd 
Arthur,  myght  wel  be  aretted  grete  folye  and  blyndcness.  . . Fyrst  ye  may  see  his 


OUR  FIRST  PRINTER. 


263 


sejxulture  in  the  monasterye  of  Glastyngburge.  . . At  Wynchester  the  rounde  table,  in 
other  places  Launcelottes  swerde  and  many  other  thynges.’ 

Character. — Our  central  impression  of  him  is  that  of  an 
honest  business  man,  resolved  to  get  a living  from  his  trade. 
His  ‘red  pole’  at  the  disused  Scriptorium,  where  monks  once 
distributed  alms  to  the  poor,  modestly  invited  all  who  desired, 
to  come  and  buy  his  wares  or  give  orders  for  printing.  Ran  his 
advertisement: 

‘If  it  please  any  man,  spiritual  or  temporal,  to  buy  any  pyes  of  two  or  three  com- 
memorations of  Salisbury  all  emprynted  after  the  form  of  the  present  letter,  which 
be  well  and  truly  correct,  let  him  come  to  Westminster  into  the  Almonry  at  the  red 
pole  and  he  shall  have  them  good  chepe.’ 

Styling  himself  ‘simple  William  Caxton,’  he  united  great  mod- 
esty of  character  to  indefatigable  industry.  Over  four  thousand 
printed  pages  are  of  his  own  rendering.  He  speaks  as  a devout 
man,  careful  of  happiness  as  of  fabrics,  who,  while  he  constructs 
a book,  studies  the  art  of  constructing  human  blessedness.  His 
introduction  to  Morte  d' Arthur  concludes: 

‘And  for  to  passe  the  tyme  this  book  shal  be  plesaunte  to  rede  in,  but  for  to  giue 
fayth  and  byleue  that  al  is  trewe  that  is  conteyned  herin,  ye  be  at  your  lyberte,  but  al 
is  wryton  for  our  doctryne,  and  for  to  beware  that  we  falle  not  to  vyce  ne  synne,  but 
to  excercyse  and  folowe  vertu,  by  whyche  we  may  come  and  atteyne  to  good  fame  and 
renomme  in  thys  lyf,  and  after  this  shorte  and  transytorye  lyf  to  come  vnto  euerlastyng 
blysse  in  heuen,  the  whyche  he  graunt  vs  that  reygneth  in  heuen  the  blessyd  Trynyte. 
Amen.’ 

It  is  not  the  exceptional  things  in  life  which  are  the  noblest, — 
not  the  high  lift  nor  the  sudden  spring  of  rare  and  exceptional 
persons,  but  the  faithful  every-day  march  of  men. 

Influence. — The  press  unfolded  its  vast  resources  tardily. 
In  all  Europe,  between  1470  and  1500,  ten  thousand  books  were 
printed,  and  of  them  a majority  in  Italy;  only  a hundred  and 
forty-one  in  England.  In  the  next  fifty  years,  but  seven  works 
had  been  printed  in  Scotland,  and  among  them  not  a single  clas- 
sic. A triumph,  if  we  consider  that  formerly  a hundred  Bibles 
could  not  be  procured  under  an  expense  of  twenty  years’  labor; 
but  an  inglorious  advancement,  if  we  consider  the  stupendous 
results  since  attained.  Very  slowly  was  this  new  appliance  for 
the  dissemination  of  knowledge  to  change  the  condition  of  soci- 
ety, but  thenceforth  we  can  never  speak  of  that  condition  icith- 
out  regard  to  the  printing-press.  No  refined  consideration,  no 
expansive  views  of  his  art,  seem  to  have  inspired  our  primeval 


264  RETROGRESSIVE  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHOR. 

printer;  but  of  what  momentous  consequences  was  he  the  initial 
agent!  Unconsciously,  he  came  to  form  a new  intellectual  era, 
to  scatter  the  messengers  of  reform,  to  render  Bibles  and  other 
books  the  common  property  of  the  great  and  the  mean,  to  create 
a democracy  and  make  a grave  for  tyrants;  to  subordinate  oral 
and  scenic  to  written  instruction,  and  thus  to  deprive  the  pulpit 
of  that  supremacy  which  was  founded  on  the  condition  of  a non- 
reading public;  to  make  possible  a direct  communication  between 
the  government  and  the  governed,  without  priestly  mediation, 
which  was  the  first  step  in  the  separation  of  Church  and  State. 
Patriarch  of  the  English  press ! stranger  to  the  powers  that 
slumber  in  thy  craft,  insensible  to  those  elevated  conceptions 
that  guide  the  world’s  helm,  yet  thy  honest  toil  for  the  day  and 
honest  hope  for  the  morrow  shall  accrue  to  the  advantage  of 
mankind  continually,  for  ever.  Lad  — apprentice  — mercer  — 

retainer  — hoary  learner — venerable  printer  — thou,  simple  man, 
by  the  accident  of  time  and  the  grace  of  fortune,  shalt  live  in 
immortal  memory! 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FEATURES. 

Under  whatever  point  of  view  we  consider  this  era,  we  find  its  political,  ecclesias- 
tical, and  literary  events  more  numerous,  varied,  and  important  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding  ages.— Guizot. 

To  observe  the  connection  between  the  successive  stages  of  a progressive  move- 
ment of  the  human  spirit,  and  to  recognize  that  the  forces  at  work  are  still  active,  is 
the  true  philosophy  of  history.— Symonds. 

Politics. — The  sombre  and  sinister  wisdom  of  Italian  policy 
— a policy  of  refined  stratagem — of  ruthless  but  secret  violence — 
achieved  in  this  age  the  tranquillity  of  a settled  state  and  the 
establishment  of  a civilized  but  imperious  despotism.  The  title 
of  Henry  VIII  was  undisputed — the  first  such  in  a hundred  years 
— his  temper  hot,  his  spirit  high,  and  his  will  supreme.  Every 
public  officer  was  his  crouching  menial.  Wolsey,  his  minister, 
devoted  his  learning  and  abilities  to  the  personal  pleasure  of  the 
master  who  might  destroy  him  by  a breath.  Under  the  adminis- 
tration of  Cromwell,  an  organized  reign  of  terror  held  the  nation 
panic-stricken  at  Henry’s  feet.  Judges  and  juries  were  coerced. 
Parliament  was  degraded  into  the  mere  engine  of  absolutism. 
His  faithful  Commons,  hesitating  to  pass  the  bill  for  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  monasteries,  were  summoned  into  his  presence.  ‘ I 
hear,’  said  the  magnificent  despot,  ‘that  my  bill  will  not  pass; 
but  I will  have  it  pass,  or  I will  have  some  of  your  heads.’  It 
passed!  The  imagination  of  his  subjects — to  whom  his  reign, 
on  the  whole,  was  decidedly  beneficial — was  overawed.  To  them 
he  was  something  high  above  the  laws  which  govern  ordinary 
men.  In  the  midst  of  his  barbarous  cruelties  he  appeared  the 
avenging  minister  of  heaven,  who,  in  renouncing  the  papacy, 
had  burst  asunder  the  prison-gates  of  Rome. 

The  counsellors  of  Edward  VI,  with  less  of  the  sanguinary 

265 


266 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


spirit  of  his  father,  were  as  unscrupulous  in  bending  the  rules  of 
law  and  justice  to  their  purpose  in  cases  of  treason.  They  were 
a designing  oligarchy,  from  whom  no  measure  conducive  to 
liberty  and  justice  could  be  expected  to  spring.  They  had  not, 
however,  the  sinews  to  wield  the  iron  sceptre  of  Henry,  and  the 
increased  weight  of  the  Commons  appears  in  the  repeal  of  for- 
mer statutes  that  had  terrified  and  exasperated  the  people;  in 
the  rejection  of  bills  sent  down  from  the  Upper  House;  in  the 
anxiety  of  the  court,  by  the  creation  of  new  boroughs,1  to  obtain 
favorable  elections. 

The  reign  of  Mary  is  memorable  as  a period  of  bloody  perse- 
cution. Popery  was  restored,  Protestants  were  imprisoned  and 
burned  for  no  other  crime  than  their  religion;  stretches  of  pre- 
rogative in  matters  temporal  were  more  violent  and  alarming; 
torture  was  more  frequent  than  in  all  former  ages  combined,  and 
a commission  issued  in  1557  has  the  appearance  of  a preliminary 
step  to  the  Inquisition.  A proclamation,  after  denouncing  the 
importation  of  books  filled  with  heresy  and  treason,  declared  that 
whoever  should  be  found  to  have  such  books  in  his  possession, 
should  be  considered  a rebel  and  executed  according  to  martial 
law.  Yet  not  even  she  could  preserve  the  absolute  dominion  of 
her  father  Henry.  While  in  his  reign  the  Lower  House  only 
once  rejected  a measure  recommended  by  the  Crown,  in  hers  the 
first  two  Parliaments  were  dissolved  on  this  account,  and  the 
third,  refusing  to  pass  several  of  her  favorite  bills,  was  far  from 
obsequious.  Still  less  was  the  English  spirit,  which  had  con- 
trolled princes  in  the  fulness  of  their  pride,  broken.  The 
reproach  of  servility  under  usurped  powers  belongs  less  to  the 
people  than  to  their  natural  leaders — the  compliant  nobility. 
The  reign  of  each  of  the  Tudors  was  disturbed  by  formidable 
discontents.  Each  had  the  discretion  never  to  carry  oppression 
to  a fatal  point. 

The  tone  and  temper  of  Elizabeth’s  administration  were  dis- 
played in  a vigilant  execution  of  severe  statutes,  especially  upon 
the  Romanists,  and  in  occasional  stretches  of  power  beyond 
the  law,  while  the  superior  wisdom  of  her  counsellors  led  them 
generally  to  shun  the  more  violent  measures  of  the  late  reigns. 
To  high  assumptions  of  prerogative,  the  resistance  of  Parliament 

1 Twenty-two  were  created  or  restored  in  this  short  reign. 


POLITICS  — SOCIETY. 


267 


became  insensibly  more  vigorous.  If,  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
many  were  creatures  of  the  Royal  Council,  grasping  at  prefer- 
ment, others  with  inflexible  aim  recurred  in  every  session  to  an 
important  guarantee  of  civil  liberty, — the  right  to  inquire  into 
public  grievances  and  obtain  redress.  Now  it  was,  perhaps  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  Commons  asserted  the  privilege  of  deter- 
mining contested  elections.  The  finger  of  this  sovereign  was 
ever  on  the  public  pulse,  and  she  knew  exactly  when  she  could 
resist  and  when  she  must  retreat. 

The  same  jealousy  of  the  aristocracy  turned  the  genius  of  the 
maiden  queen  to  a new  source  of  influence,  unknown  to  her 
ancestors, — the  people,  a people  divided  by  creeds  and  dogmas, 
but  made  compliant  and  coherent  by  the  firmness  and  the  in- 
dulgence of  the  wisest  policy.  While  she  ruled  them  with  a 
potent  hand,  she  courted  their  eyes  and  hearts.  She  it  was  who, 
studying  their  wants  and  wishes,  first  gave  the  people  a theatre 
4 for  the  recreation  of  our  loving  subjects  as  for  our  solace  and 
pleasure.’  She  subdued  by  yielding.  Her  sex  and  graciousness 
inspired  a reign  of  love,  and  her  energies  contributed  to  make  it 
one  of  enterprise  and  emulation  — a new  era  of  adventure  and 
glory.  Elizabeth,  living  in  the  hearts  of  her  people,  survived  in 
their  memories.  Her  birthday  was  long  observed  as  a festival 
day.  Every  sign  of  the  growing  prosperity  told  in  her  favor, 
and  her  worst  acts  failed  to  dim  the  lustre  of  the  national  ideal. 

Society. — The  monarchy  established  peace,  and  with  peace 
came  the  useful  arts  and  domestic  comfort.  The  development  of 
manufactures  was  gradually  absorbing  the  unemployed.  Under 
Elizabeth  commerce  began  that  rapid  career  which  has  made 
Englishmen  the  carriers  of  the  world.  The  burst  of  national 
vigor  found  new  outlets  in  the  marts  of  the  Mediterranean  and 
Baltic.  In  1553  was  founded  a company  to  trade  with  Russia.  In 
1578  Drake  circumnavigated  the  globe.  In  1600  the  East  India 
Company  was  founded.  Henry  VIII  at  the  beginning  of  his 
reign  had  but  one  ship  of  war.  Elizabeth  sent  out  one  hundred 
and  fifty  against  the  Armada.  Agriculture  was  so  improved 
that  the  produce  of  an  acre  was  doubled.  Dwellings  of  brick 
and  stone  were  superseding  the  straw-thatched  cottages,  plastered 
with  coarsest  clay  and  often  on  fire.  With  open  admiration, 


268 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Harrison  notes,  1580,  three  important  changes  in  the  farm-houses 
of  his  time: 

‘One  is  the  multitude  of  chimnies  lately  erected,  whereas  in  their  yoong  daies  were 
not  above  two  or  three,  if  so  manie,  in  most  uplandishe  townes  of  the  realme.  . . . The 
second  is  the  great  amendment  of  lodging,  although  not  generall,  for  our  fathers,  (yea 
and  we  ourselves  also)  have  lien  full  oft  upon  straw  pallets,  on  rough  mats  covered  onlie 
with  a sheet,  under  coverlets  made  of  dogswain,  or  hopharlots,  and  a good  round  log 
under  their  heads,  instead  of  a bolster  or  pillow.  If  it  were  so  that  the  good  man  of  the 
house  had  within  seven  years  after  his  marriage  purchased  a matteres  or  flockebed,  and 
thereto  a sacke  of  chaffe  to  rest  his  head  upon,  he  thought  himselfe  to  be  as  well  lodged 
as  the  lord  of  the  towne.  . . . Pillowes  (said  they)  were  thought  meet  onelie  for  women 
in  childbed.  . . . The  third  thing  is  the  exchange  of  vessell,  as  of  treene  platters  into 
pewter,  and  wodden  spoons  into  silver  or  tin;  for  so  common  was  all  sorts  of  treene  stuff 
in  olden  time,  that  a man  should  hardlie  find  four  peeces  of  pewter  (of  which  one  was 
peradventure  a salt)  in  a good  farmers  house.’ 

Looking-glasses  imported  from  France  began  to  displace  the 
small  mirrors  of  polished  steel.  Carpets  were  used  rather  for 
covering  tables  than  floors,  which  latter  were  generally  strewn 
with  rushes.  Forks  were  as  yet  unheard  of,  but  knives  — first 
made  in  England  in  1563  — and  spoons  were  ornamented  with 
some  care.  Gloomy  walls  and  serried  battlements  disappeared 
from  the  palaces  of  the  noblesse,  half  Gothic,  half  Italian,  cov- 
ered with  picturesque  gables,  fretted  fronts,  gilded  turrets,  and 
adorned  with  terraces  and  vast  staircases,  with  gardens,  foun- 
tains, vases,  and  statues.  The  prodigal  use  of  glass  was  a marked 
feature  — one  whose  sanitary  value  can  hardly  be  overestimated. 
‘ You  shall  have,’  grumbles  one,  ‘your  houses  so  full  of  glass  that 
we  can  not  tell  where  to  come  to  be  out  of  the  sun  or  the  cold.’ 
The  master  no  longer  rode  at  the  head  of  his  servants,  but  sat 
apart  in  his  ‘coach.’  The  first  carriage,  1564,  caused  much  aston- 
ishment; some  calling  it  ‘a  great  sea-shell  from  China,’  others  ‘a 
temple  in  which  cannibals  worshipped  the  devil.’  Gentlemen 
placed  their  glory  less  in  the  conquests  of  the  battle-axe  and 
sword  than  in  the  elegance  and  singularity  of  their  dress.  ‘ Do 
not,’  says  a bitter  Puritan,  ‘both  men  and  women,  for  the  most 
part,  every  one,  in  general,  go  attired  in  silks,  velvets,  damasks, 
satins,  and  what  not,  which  are  attire  only  for  the  nobility  and 
gentry,  and  not  for  the  others  at  any  hand?’  They  wore  hats 
‘perking  up  like  the  spear  or  shaft  of  a temple,’  or  hats  ‘flat  and 
broad  on  the  crown  like  the  battlements  of  a house’;  hats  of 
silk,  velvet,  and  of  ‘fine  hair,  which  they  call  beaver,  fetched 
from  beyond  the  seas,  from  whence  a great  sort  of  other  vani- 
ties do  come  besides’;  cloaks  of  sable,  ornamented  shirts;  coats 


SOCIAL  STATE. 


269 


diversified  with  oxen  and  goats;  velvet  shoes,  covered  with 
rosettes  and  ribbons;  boots  with  falling  tops,  hung  with  lace, 
and  embroidered  with  figures  of  birds,  animals,  flowers  of  silver 
and  2*old.  When  Elizabeth  died,  three  thousand  dresses  were 
found  in  her  wardrobe.  Feasts  were  carnivals  of  splendor.  En- 
tertainments were  like  fairy  scenes.  Sober  thrift  was  forgotten 
in  the  universal  expanse.  Gallants  gambled  a fortune  at  a sit- 
ting, then  sailed  for  the  New  World,  in  quest  of  a fresh  one. 
Dreams  of  El  Dorados  lured  the  imagination  of  the  meanest 
seaman.  The  advance  of  corporal  well-being  disclosed  itself  in 
the  manners  and  tastes  of  all  ranks  — at  the  base  as  well  as 
on  the  summit.  The  growth  of  the  humanities  is  seen  in  the 
establishment  of  hospitals  or  retreats  for  the  infirm  and  needy, 
and  houses  of  correction  for  the  vagrant  and  vicious. 

Not  modern  England  yet.  Herds  of  deer  strayed  in  vast 
and  trackless  forests.  Fens  forty  or  fifty  miles  in  length  reeked 
with  miasm  and  fever.  The  population  — barely  five  millions 
— was  perpetually  thinned  by  pestilence  and  want,  whose  tri- 
umphs were  numbered  by  the  death-crier  in  the  streets  or  the 
knell  for  the  passing  soul.  The  peasants  shivered  in  their 
mud-built  hovels,  where  chimneys  still  were  rare.  For  the  poor 
there  was  no  physician;  for  the  dying  — till  the  monasteries 
were  suppressed  — the  monk  and  his  crucifix.  For  a hundred 
years,  agrarian  changes  had  been  leading  to  the  mergence  of 
smaller  holdings  and  the  introduction  of  sheep-farming  on  an 
enormous  scale.  Merchants,  too,  were  investing  heavily  in  land, 
and  these  ‘farming  gentlemen’  were  under  little  restraint  in 
the  eviction  of  the  smaller  tenants.  The  farmers,  according  to 
More,  were  ‘got  rid  of  either  by  fraud  or  force,  or  tired  out 
with  repeated  wrongs  into  parting  with  their  property.’  He 
adds: 

‘In  this  way  it  comes  to  pass  that  these  poor  wretches,  men,  women,  husbands, 
orphans,  widows,  parents  with  little  children,  householders  greater  in  number  than  in 
wealth  (for  arable  farming  requires  many  hands,  while  one  shepherd  and  herdsman  will 
suffice  for  a pasture  farm),  all  these  emigrate  from  their  native  fields  without  knowing 
where  to  go.’ 

Homeless  wanderers,  they  joined  the  army  of  beggars,  maraud- 
ers, vagabonds, — a vast  mass  of  disorder  on  which  every  rebellion 
might  count  for  support.  The  poor  man,  if  unemployed,  prefer- 
ring to  be  idle,  might  be  demanded  for  service  by  any  master  of 


270 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


his  vocation,  and  compelled  to  work.  If  caught  begging  once, 
and  neither  aged  nor  infirm,  he  was  whipped  at  the  cart’s  tail. 
For  a second  offence,  his  ear  was  slit,  or  bored  through  with  a 
hot  iron.  For  a third, — proved  thereby  to  be  useless  to  himself 
and  hurtful  to  others, — he  suffered  death  as  a felon.  This  law, 
enacted  in  1536,  and  subsisting  for  sixty  years,  expressed  the 
English  conviction  that  it  is  better  for  a man  not  to  live  at  all 
than  to  live  a profitless  and  worthless  life, — so  reaching,  per- 
haps, the  heart  of  the  whole  matter.  Hogue , mendicant , thief, 
were  practically  synonymous  terms,  embracing, — 

‘All  persons  calling  themselves  scholars,  going  about  begging;  all  seafaring  men 
pretending  losses  of  their  ships  and  goods  dn  the  sea;  all  idle  persons  going  about  either 
begging,  or  using  any  subtle  craft  or  unlawful  games  and  plays,  or  feigning  to  have 
knowledge  in  physiognomy,  palmistry,  or  other  like  crafty  science,  or  pretending  that 
they  can  tell  destinies,  fortunes,  or  such  other  fastastical  imaginations,  all  fencers, 
bear-wards,  common  players  and  minstrels;  all  jugglers.’ 

Travelling  required  strong  nerves.  Some  one  petitions  that 
‘parties  of  horse  be  stationed  all  along  the  avenues  of  the  city 
of  London,  so  that  if  a coach  or  wagon  wanted  a convoy,  two 
or  three  or  more  may  be  detached.’  Sometimes,  says  More, 
you  might  see  a score  of  thieves  hung  on  the  same  gibbet.  In 
the  county  of  Somerset  alone,  we  find  the  magistrates  capturing 
a hundred  at  a stroke,  hanging  fifty  at  once,  and  impatient  to 
swing  the  rest.  On  the  byways,  as  on  all  the  highways,  stand 
the  gallows.  Beneath  the  idea  of  order  is  the  idea  of  the  scaf- 
fold. Savage  energy  remains.  The  living  are  cut  down,  disem- 
bowelled, quartered.  ‘When  his  heart  was  cut  out,  he  uttered  a 
deep  groan.’  London  witnesses  the  fearful  spectacle  of  a living- 
human  being  — a poisoner  — boiled  to  death,  ‘to  the  terrible  ex- 
ample of  all  others.’  Judge  of  the  moral  tone  by  the  utter 
absence  of  personal  feeling.  With  business-like  brevity,  as  if 
the  thing  were  perfectly  natural,  Cromwell  ticks  off  human  lives: 

‘Item,  the  Abbot  of  Reading  to  be  sent  down  to  be  tried  and  executed  at  Reading.' 
‘Item,  when  Master  Fisher  shall  go  to  his  execution,  and  the  other.’ 

Honor,  beauty,  youth,  and  genius  went  quietly  to  the  block,  as  if 
bloodshed  were  an  accepted  system.  With  the  utmost  equanim- 
ity, as  if  no  murder  could  be  extraordinary,  Holinshed  relates: 

‘The  five  and  twentith  daie  of  Maie  (1535)  was  in  saint  Paules  church  at  London 
examined  nineteen  men  and  six  women  born  in  Holland,  whose  opinions  were  (heretical). 
Fourteene  of  them  were  condemned,  a man  and  a woman  of  them  were  burned  in  Smith - 
field,  the  other  twelve  were  sent  to  other  townes,  there  to  be  burnt.  On  the  nineteenth 


SOCIAL  STATE. 


271 


of  June  were  three  moonkes  of  the  Charterhouse  hanged,  drawne,  and  quartered  at 
Tiburne,  and  their  heads  and  quarters  set  up  about  London,  for  denieng  the  king  to  be 
supreme  head  of  the  church.  Also  the  one  and  twentith  of  the  same  moneth,  and  for  the 
same  cause,  doctor  John  Fisher,  bishop  of  Rochester,  was  beheaded  for  denieng  of  the 
supremacie,  and  his  head  set  upon  London  bridge,  but  his  bodie  buried  within  Barking 
churchyard.  The  pope  had  elected  him  a cardinall,  and  sent  his  hat  as  far  as  Calais,  but 
his  head  was  off  before  his  hat  was  on:  so  that  they  met  not.  On  the  sixth  of  Julie  was 
Sir  Thomas  Moore  beheaded  for  the  like  crime,  that  is  to  wit,  for  denieng  the  king  to  be 
supreme  head.’ 

In  such  a state,  man  can  be  happy  — like  swine.  He  is  still  a 
primitive  animal,  too  heavy  for  refined  sensations,  too  vehement 
for  restraint;  a hive  of  violent  and  uncurbed  instincts,  seeking 
only  expansion,  and,  to  that  end,  ready  to  appeal  at  once  to  arms. 
Says  a correspondent: 

‘On  Thursday  laste,  as  my  Lorde  Rytche  was  rydynge  in  the  streates,  there  was  one 
Wyndam  that  stode  in  a dore,  and  shotte  a dagge  at  him,  thynkynge  to  have  slayne  him. 

. . . The  same  daye,  also,  as  Sir  John  Conway  was  goynge  in  the  streetes,  Mr.  Lodovyke 
Grevell  came  sodenly  upon  him,  and  stroke  him  on  the  hedd  with  a sworde.  ...  I am 
forced  to  trouble  your  Honors  with  thes  tryflynge  matters,  for  I know  no  greater.’ 

His  enjoyment,  if  lacking  decency,  is  heartfelt  — the  overflowing 
of  a coarse  animation.  Bear  and  bull  baitings  are  the  delight  of 
all  classes,  a ‘charming  entertainment’  even  to  the  queen.  Cock- 
fighting  and  throwing  at  cocks  are  regularly  introduced  into  the 
public  schools.  They  feast  copiously,  furnishing  their  tables  as 
if  to  revictual  Noah’s  ark.  They  drink  without  ceasing,  as  when 
they  crossed  the  sea  in  leather  boats;  as  now  in  Germany,  where 
to  drink  is  to  drink  for  ever.  Their  holidays,  with  which  tradition 
had  filled  the  year,  are  the  incarnation  of  natural  life.  Stubbes, 
whose  mind  is  burdened  with  the  pitiless  doctrines  of  Calvin, 
says,  with  morose  impatience: 

‘First,  all  the  wilde  heades  of  the  parishe,  conventying  together,  chuse  them  a 
ground  capitaine  of  mischeef,  whan  they  innoble  with  the  title  of  myrLorde  of  Misserule, 
and  hym  they  crown  with  great  solemnitie,  and  adopt  for  their  kyng.  This  kyng 
anoynted,  chuseth  for  the  twentie,  fourtie,  three  score  or  a hundred  lustie  guttes  like  to 
hymself  to  waite  uppon  his  lordely  maiestie.  . . . Then  have  they  their  hobbie  horses, 
dragons,  and  other  antiques  together  with  their  baudie  pipers  and  thundering  drommers, 
to  strike  up  the  devilles  daunce  withall : then  marche  these  heathen  companie  towardes 
the  churche  and  churche-yarde,  their  pipers  pipyng,  their  drommers  thonderyng,  their 
stumppes  dauncyng,  their  belles  rynglyng,  their  hankerchefes  swyngyng  about  their 
heades  like  madmen,  their  hobbie  horses  and  other  monsters  skirmishyng  amongest  the 
throng;  and  in  this  sorte  they  goe  to  the  churche  (though  the  minister  bee  at  praier  or 
preachyng),  dauncyng  and  swingyng  their  hankercheefes  over  their  heads,  in  the  churche, 
like  devilles  incarnate,  with  such  a confused  noise,  that  no  man  can  heare  his  owne  voice. 
Then  the  foolishe  people  they  looke,  they  stare,  they  laugh,  they  fleere,  and  mount  upon 
formes  and  pewes,  to  see  these  goodly  pageauntes,  solemnized  in  this  sort.  Then  after 
this,  aboute  the  churche  they  goe  againe  and  againe,  and  so  fortheinto  the  churche-yarde, 
where  they  have  commonly  their  sommer  haules,  their  bowers,  arbors  and  banquettyng 


272 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


houses  set  up,  wherein  they  feaste,  banquet,  and  daunce  all  that  daie,  and  preadventure 
all  that  night  too.  And  thus  these  terrestriall  furies  spend  the  Sabboath  daie.’ 

And, — 

‘Against  Maie,  every  parishe,  towne  and  village  assemble  themselves  together,  bothe 
men,  women,  and  children,  olde  and  yong,  even  all  indifferently ; they  goe  to  the  woodes 
where  they  spende  all  the  night  in  pleasant  pastymes,  and  in  the  mornyng  they  returne, 
bringing  with  them  birch,  bowes,  and  branches  of  trees,  to  deck  their  assemblies  with- 
all.  But  their  cheefest  iewell  they  bringe  from  thence  is  their  Maie  poole,  which  they 
bring  home  with  great  veneration,  as  thus : They  have  twenty  or  fourtie  yoke  of  oxen, 
every  ox  havyng  a sweete  nosegaie  of  flowers  tyed  on  the  tippe  of  his  homes,  and  these 
oxen  drawe  home  this  Maie  poole  (this  stinkyng  idoll  rather),  . . . and  thus  beyng 
reared  up,  they  strawe  the  grounde  aboute,  binde  greene  boughes  about  it,  sett  up 
sommer  haules,  bowers,  and  arbours  hard  by  it;  and  then  fall  they  to  banquet  and  feast, 
to  leape  and  dance  aboute  it,  as  the  heathen  people  did  at  the  dedication  of  their  idolles.’ 

What  literature  will  this  life  create?  You  will  see  it  all 
there,  reflected  in  the  drama,  reproduced  on  the  stage, — free  and 
liberal  living,  a masquerade  of  splendor,  vice  raging  without 
shame,  a prodigality  of  carnage, — a young  w’orld,  natural,  un- 
shackled, and  tragic. 

The  Reformation. — Society  is  not  possible  without  reli- 
gion, and  neither  society  nor  religion  can  be  founded  only  on  the 
pursuit  of  pleasure  and  of  power.  Recall  the  secular  irritations 
whose  momentum  had  long  been  gathering  for  the  impending 
outbreak.  Imagine,  if  you  can,  the  secret  anger  which  the  cus- 
tom of  sanctuary  alone  must  have  excited.  Says  the  Venetian 
ambassador  at  the  English  court  in  1502: 

‘The  clergy  are  they  who  have  the  supreme  sway  over  the  country,  both  in  peace 
and  war.  Among  other  things,  they  have  provided  that  a number  of  sacred  places  in  the 
kingdom  should  serve  for  the  refuge  and  escape  of  all  delinquents;  and  no  one,  were  he 
a traitor  to  the  crown,  or  had  he  practised  against  the  king’s  own  person,  can  be  taken 
out  of  these  by  force.  And  a villain  of  this  kind,  who,  for  some  great  excess  that  he  has 
committed,  has  been  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  one  of  these  sacred  places,  often  goes  out 
of  it  to  brawl  in  the  public  streets,  and  then,  returning  to  it,  escapes  with  impunity  for 
every  fresh  offence  he  may  have  been  guilty  of.  This  is  no  detriment  to  the  purses  of  the 
priests,  nor  to  the  other  perpetual  sanctuaries ; but  every  church  is  a sanctuary  for  forty 
days;  and  if  a thief  or  murderer,  who  has  taken  refuge  in  one,  cannot  leave  it  in  safety 
during  those  forty  days,  he  gives  notice  that  he  wishes  to  leave  England.  In  which  case, 
being  stripped  to  the  shirt  by  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  place,  and  a crucifix  placed  in 
his  hand,  he  is  conducted  along  the  road  to  the  sea,  where,  if  he  finds  a passage,  he  may 
go  with  a “ God  speed  you.”  But  if  he  should  not  find  one,  he  walks  into  the  sea  up  to 
the  throat,  and  three  times  asks  for  a passage;  and  this  is  repeated  till  a ship  appears, 
which  comes  for  him,  and  so  he  departs  in  safety.  It  is  not  unamusing  to  hear  how  the 
women  and  children  lament  over  the  misfortune  of  these  exiles,  asking  “ how  they  can 
live  so  destitute  out  of  England”;  adding,  moreover,  that  “they  had  better  have  died 
than  go  out  of  the  world,”  as  if  England  were  the  whole  world.’ 

Visible  acts  and  invisible  thoughts  were  environed  and  held 
down  by  an  ecclesiastical  code,  which,  only  a vehicle  for  extor- 


THE  REFORMATION. 


273 


tion,  changed  the*  police  into  an  inquisition.  4 Heresy,’  4 witch- 
craft,’ 4 impatient  words,’  4 absence  from  church,’  an  offence 
imputed  or  suspected,  resulted  in  heavy  fines,  imprisonment,  ab- 
juration, public  penance,  and  the  menace  or  sentence  of  the 
torture  and  the  stake.  A Northman,  a follower  of  Luther,  an 
artist,  grouped  and  portrayed  the  infamy  and  glory  of  his  age, 
— Christ  bleeding  in  the  last  throes  of  a dying  life,  angels  full 
of  anguish  catching  in  their  vessels  the  holy  blood,  the  stars 
veiling  their  face,  a heretic  bound  to  a tree  and  torn  with  the 
iron-pointed  lash  of  the  executioner,  another  praying  with 
clasped  hands  while  an  auger  is  screwed  into  his  eye,  men  and 
women  hurled  at  the  lance’s  point  from  the  crest  of  a hill  into 
the  abyss  below.  On  the  other  hand,  an  atrocious  crime,  the 
mortal  sin  of  a priest,  could  be  expiated  by  an  indifferent  pen- 
ance or  the  payment  of  a few  shillings.  But  the  crimes  of  the 
clergy  were  exceeded  by  their  licentiousness.  These  are  the 
most  moderate  lines  in  a satire  of  1528: 

‘What  are  the  bishops  divines?  . . . 

To  forge  excommunications, 

For  tythes  and  decimations 
Is  their  continual  exercise.  . . . 

Rather  than  to  make  a sermon. 

To  follow  the  chase  of  wild  deer, 

Passing  the  time  with  jolly  cheer. 

Among  them  all  is  common 
To  play  at  the  cards  and  dice; 

Some  of  them  are  nothing  nice 
Both  at  hazard  and  momchance; 

They  drink  in  golden  bowls 
The  blood  of  poor  simple  souls 
Perishing  for  lack  of  sustenance. 

Their  hungry  cures  they  never  teach, 

Nor  will  suffer  none  other  to  preach.’1 

In  Latimer’s  opinion,  only  one  bishop  in  all  England  was  faithful: 

‘ I would  ask  a strange  question.  Who  is  the  most  diligent  bishop  and  prelate  in  all 
England,  that  passeth  all  the  rest  in  doing  of  his  office?  I can  tell,  for  I know  him  who 
it  is;  I know  him  well.  But  now  I think  I see  you  listening  and  hearkening  that  I 
should  name  him.  There  is  one  that  passeth  all  the  others,  and  is  the  most  diligent 
prelate  and  preacher  in  all  England.  And  will  ye  know  who  it  is?  I will  tell  you.  It  is 
the  devil.  Therefore,  ye  unpreaching  prelates,  learn  of  the  devil  to  be  diligent  in  your 
office.  If  ye  will  not  learn  of  God,  for  shame  learn  of  the  devil.’ 

It  was  the  frightful  depravity  of  Rome  that  startled  Luther 
into  revolt.  He  went  there  an  eager  pilgrim,  trudging  penniless 
and  barefoot  across  the  Alps,  as  to  the  city  of  the  saints,  and 

1 Roy’s  Burying  of  the  Mass. 

18 


274 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — FEATURES. 


the  palace  of  the  Pope,  fragrant  with  the  odors  of  Paradise. 
‘ Blessed  Rome,’  he  cried  as  he  entered  the  gate,  — ‘ Blessed 
Rome  sanctified  with  the  blood  of  martyrs  ! ’ ‘Adieu  ! ’ he  cried 
as  he  fled,  ‘ let  all  who  would  lead  a holy  life  depart  from  Rome. 
Every  thing  is  permitted  in  Rome  except  to  be  an  honest  man.’ 
Romanism  was  turned  into  a carnival  of  vice  in  which  all  that 
is  high  and  pure  in  man  is  smothered  by  corruption,  and  a 
circus  of  ostentation  where  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  bought 
and  sold.  In  1517  a new  cathedral1  was  in  progress,  that 
should  dwarf  the  proudest  monuments  of  art.  Agents  were  sent 
about  Europe  with  sacks  of  indulgences  and  dispensations  — 
letters  of  credit  on  heaven.  Archbishops  were  promised  half 
the  spoil  for  their  support.  Streets  were  hung  with  flags  to 
receive  them,  bells  were  rung  to  welcome  them;  nuns  and  monks 
walked  in  procession  before  and  after,  while  the  vender  himself 
sat  in  a chariot,  with  the  Papal  Bull  on  a velvet  cushion  in  front. 
The  sale-rooms  were  the  churches.  Amid  the  blazing  candles  of 
the  altar,  the  agent  explained  the  efficacy  of  his  medicines,  de- 
claring all  sins  blotted  out  ‘as  soon  as  the  money  chinks  in  the 
box.’  Acolytes  walked  through  the  crowds,  clinking  the  plates, 
and  crying,  ‘ Buy,  buy  ! ’ 

Now  consider  the  national  temper  and  inclinations,  which 
long  before  the  great  outburst  were  muttering  ominously.  The 
words  of  the  consecration,  the  most  sacred  of  the  old  worship, 
Hoc  est  corpus , were  travestied  into  a nickname  for  jugglery — 
hocus  pocus.  Priests  were  hooted  or  knocked  down  in  their 
walks.  Women  refused  the  sacrament  from  their  hands.  An 
apparitor,  sent  by  the  church  to  secure  her  dues,  was  driven  out 
with  insults:  ‘Go  thy  way,  thou  stynkyng  knave;  ye  are  but 
knaves  and  brybours,  everych  one  of  you.’  Another’s  head  was 
broken.  A waiter  fell  in  trouble  for  saying  that  ‘ the  sight  of  a 
priest  did  make  him  sick,’  also,  ‘ that  he  would  go  sixty  miles  to 
indict’  one.  In  one  diocese  a woman  was  summoned  and  tried 
for  turning  her  face  from  the  cross;  several  for  not  saying  their 
prayers  in  church,  remaining  seated  ‘dumb  as  beasts’;  three  for 
passing  a night  together  reading  a book  of  the  Scriptures;  a 
thresher  for  asserting,  as  he  pointed  to  his  work,  that  he  was 
going;  to  make  God  come  out  of  his  straw.  Latimer  announced 

o o 

1 St.  Peter’s,  designed  by  Angelo. 


THE  REFORMATION. 


275 


one  day  that  he  would  preach  in  a certain  place.  On  the  morrow, 
proceeding  to  his  appointment,  he  found  the  doors  closed,  and 
waited  more  than  an  hour  for  the  key.  At  last  a man  came,  and 
said:  ‘Syr,  thys  ys  a busye  day  with  us;  we  cannot  heare  you: 
it  is  Robyn  Hoodes  Daye.’  Straws  on  the  stream.  The  thought- 
ful and  the  learned  had  come  to  smile  at  the  extent  of  human 
credulity.  Erasmus  visits  the  shrine  at  Walsingham.  An  at- 
tendant, like  a modern  guide,  shows  him  the  wonders: 

‘The  joint  of  a man's  finger  is  exhibited  to  us,  the  largest  of  three.  I kiss  it; 
and  I then  ask,  “Whose  relics  were  these?”  He  says,  “St.  Peter’s.”  “The  apos- 
tle?” He  said,  “Yes.”  Then,  observing  the  size  of  the  joint,  which  might  have 
been  that  of  a giant,  I remarked,  “Peter  must  have  been  a man  of  very  large  size.’’ 
At  this  one  of  my  companions  burst  into  a laugh,  which  I certainly  took  ill,  for  if  lie 
had  been  quiet  the  attendant  would  have  shown  us  all  the  relics.’ 

His  attention  is  called  to  the  milk  of  the  Virgin,  ‘what  looked 
like  ground  chalk  mixed  with  white  of  egg,’  and  he  inquires  as 
civilly  as  he  may  by  what  proofs  he  is  assured  of  its  genuineness: 

‘The  canon,  as  if  possessed  by  a fury,  looking  aghast  upon  us,  and  apparently 
horrified  at  the  blasphemous  inquiry,  replied,  “ What  need  to  ask  such  questions,  when 
you  have  the  authenticated  inscription?”’ 

The  contagion  spreads,  reaches  even  men  in  office.  When  the 
enormities  of  the  English  monks  are  read  in  Parliament,  there  is 
nothing  but  the  cry  of  ‘Down  with  them!’  Henry  permits  the 
‘free  and  liberal  use  ’ of  the  Scriptures.  Never  were  they  so 
eagerly  and  artlessly  scrutinized.  Every  impression  made  a fur- 
row. Girls  took  them  to  church,  and  studied  them  ostentatiously 
during  matins.  Grave  judges,  charging  the  jury,  prefaced  their 
charges  by  a text.  Every  reader  became  an  expounder,  and  the 
nation  abounded  with  disputants.  They  reasoned  about  the 
sacred  volume  in  taverns  and  alehouses.  In  vain  the  king,  irri- 
tated at  the  universal  distraction  of  opinion,  orders  them  not  to 
rely  too  much  on  their  own  ideas,  and  restricts  the  privilege  to 
the  nobility  and  gentry.  In  the  solitude  of  the  fields,  in  con- 
cealment, under  their  smoky  lights,  by  their  fires  of  turf,  they 
spell  out  the  Bible,  discuss  it,  ponder  it.  One  hides  it  in  a 
hollow  tree,  another  commits  a chapter  to  memory,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  revolve  it  even  in  the  presence  of  his  accusers.  They 
see  a companion  or  relative  bound  amid  the  smoke,  encourage 
him,  cry  out  to  him  that  his  cause  is  just,  hear  his  last  appeals 
to  God,  and  meditate  on  them  darkly,  passionately. 

Twice  had  the  storm  gathered  and  passed.  Twice  had  the 


276 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


mind  of  Europe  risen  in  vain  against  the  domination  of  Rome; 
first  in  France,  then  in  England  and  Bohemia.  But  now  the  in- 
vention of  printing,  which  supplied  her  assailants  with  unwonted 
weapons,  the  study  of  the  classics,  the  vices  of  the  Roman  clergy, 
— these  things  conspired  to  achieve  in  the  sixteenth  century  what 
was  impossible  in  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth.  More  powerful 
still,  because  more  general:  for  five  centuries  the  energies  of  the 
human  spirit  had  been  accumulating.  Never  had  it  greater 
activity,  never  so  imperious  a desire  to  advance.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  Church,  which  governed  the  intellect  and  the  heart, 
had  fallen  into  a state  of  imbecility  and  remained  stationary. 
Insurrection  was  the  result.  The  forward  impulse — ethical  and 
intellectual — resisted  by  the  moral  inertness,  but  accumulated  to 
excess,  burst  out,  and  produced  the  Reformation.  The  change 
was  essentially  moral.  Its  mainspring  was  the  awakened  con- 
science— not  the  revolutionary  desire  to  experimentalize  abstract 
truth,  but  the  indignation  of  righteousness,  the  fundamental 
anxiety  to  seize  upon  truth  and  justice.  It  is  the  genius  of  the 
Germanic  peoples — the  idea  of  duty  blooming  afresh  amid  the 
mighty  upgrowth  of  all  human  ideas,  the  sombre  Semitic  con- 
ception of  the  vast  and  solitary  Being,  whose  commands,  whose 
vengeance,  whose  promises  and  threats,  fill,  occupy,  and  direct 
their  thoughts.  They  ask,  with  Luther,  ‘ What  is  righteousness, 
and  how  shall  I obtain  it?’  Troubled  and  anxious,  their  light 
failing,  themselves  groping,  they  cry  from  the  abyss: 

‘Almighty  and  most  merciful  Father;  we  have  erred,  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways 
like  lost  sheep.  We  have  followed  too  much  the  devices  and  desires  of  our  own  heart. 
We  have  offended  against  Thy  holy  laws.  We  have  left  undone  those  things  which 
we  ought  to  have  done;  And  we  have  done  those  things  which  we  ought  not  to  have 
done;  And  there  is  no  health  in  us.  But  Thou,  O Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  miser- 
able offenders.  Spare  Thou  them,  O God,  which  confess  their  faults.  Restore  Thou 
them  that  are  penitent;  According  to  Thy  promises  declared  unto  mankind  in  Christ 
Jesus  our  Lord.  And  grant,  O most  merciful  Father,  for  His  sake;  That  we  may 
hereafter  live  a godly,  righteous,  and  sober  life.’ 

‘Almighty  and  everlasting  God,  who  hatest  nothing  that  Thou  hast  made,  and  dost 
forgive  the  sins  of  all  them  that  are  penitent;  Create  and  make  in  us  new  and  con- 
trite hearts,  that  we  worthily  lamenting  our  sins,  and  acknowledging  our  wretched- 
ness, may  obtain  of  Thee,  the  God  of  all  mercy,  perfect  remission  and  forgiveness.’ 1 

It  is  this  conscience  that  made  believers  strong"  against  all  the 
revulsions  of  nature  and  all  the  trembling  of  the  flesh.  Many 
went  to  the  stake  cheerfully,  and  all  bravely,  deeming  the  ‘cross 

iBook  of  Common  Prayer , 1548  ; subsequently,  at  different  periods,  undergoing 
several  changes. 


THE  REFORMATION. 


277 

of  persecution’  an  ‘inestimable  jewel.’  ‘No  one  will  be  crowned,’ 
said  one  of  them,  ‘ but  they  who  light  like  men,  and  he  who  en- 
dures to  the  end  shall  be  saved.’  Latimer  at  eighty,  refusing  to 
retract,  after  two  years  of  prison  and  waiting,  was  burned.  His 
companion,  ready  to  be  chained  to  the  post,  said  aloud:  ‘O 
heavenly  Father,  I give  thee  most  hearty  thanks,  for  that  thou 
hast  called  me  to  be  a professor  of  thee,  even  unto  death!’  Lati- 
mer in  his  turn,  when  they  brought  the  lighted  fagots,  uttered 
the  thrilling  words:  ‘Be  of  good  comfort,  Master  Ridley,  and 
play  the  man:  we  shall  this  day  light  such  a candle,  by  God’s 
grace,  in  England,  as  I trust  shall  never  be  put  out.’  A youth, 
an  apprentice  to  a silk-weaver,  doomed  to  die  if  he  does  not 
recant,  is  exhorted  by  his  parents  to  stand  firm: 

‘Then  William  said  to  his  mother,  “For  my  little  pain  which  I shall  suffer,  which  is 
but  a short  braid,  Christ  hath  promised  me,  mother  (said  he),  a crown  of  joy:  may  you 
not  be  glad  of  that,  mother?”  With  that  his  mother  kneeled  down  on  her  knees,  saying, 
“I  pray  God  strengthen  thee,  my  son,  to  the  end;  yea,  I think  thee  as  well-bestowed  as 
any  child  that  ever  I bare.”  . . . Then  William  Hunter  plucked  up  his  gown,  and  stepped 
over  the  parlour  groundsel,  and  went  forward  cheerfully;  the  sheriff's  servant  taking 
him  by  one  arm,  and  I his  brother  by  another.  And  thus  going  in  the  way,  he  met  with 
his  father  according  to  his  dream,  and  he  spake  to  his  son  weeping,  and  saying,  “God  be 
with  thee,  son  William”;  and  William  said,  “God  be  with  you,  good  father,  and  be  of 
good  comfort;  for  I hope  we  shall  meet  again,  when  we  shall  be  merry.”  His  father  said, 
“1  hope  so,  William” ; and  so  departed.  So  William  went  to  the  place  where  the  stake 
stood,  even  according  to  his  dream,  where  all  things  were  very  unready.  Then  William 
took  a wet  broom-faggot,  and  kneeled  down  thereon  and  read  the  fifty-first  Psalm,  till  he 
came  to  these  words,  “The  sacrifice  of  God  is  a contrite  spirit;  a contrite  and  a broken 
heart,  O God,  thou  wilt  not  despise.”  . . . Then  said  the  sheriff,  “ Here  is  a letter  from 
the  queen.  If  thou  wilt  recant  thou  shalt  live;  if  not  thou  shalt  be  burned.”  “No,” 
quoth  William,  “I  will  not  recant,  God  willing.”  Then  William  rose  and  went  to  the 
stake,  and  stood  upright  to  it.  Then  came  one  Richard  Ponde,  a bailiff,  and  made  fast 
the  chain  about  William.  Then  said  master  Brown,  “ Here  is  not  wood  enough  to  burn  a 
leg  of  him.”  Then  said  William,  “Good  people!  pray  for  me,  and  make  speed  and  des- 
patch quickly ; and  pray  for  me  while  you  see  me  alive,  good  people ! and  I will  pray  for 
you  likewise.”  “How?”  quoth  master  Brown,  “pray  for  thee!  I will  pray  no  more  for 
thee  than  I will  pray  for  a dog.”  . . . Then  was  there  a gentleman  which  said,  “I  pray 
God  have  mercy  upon  his  soul.”  The  people  said,  “Amen,  Amen.”  Immediately  was 
fire  made.  Then  William  cast  his  psalter  right  into  his  brother’s  hand,  who  said,  “Will- 
iam! think  on  the  holy  passion  of  Christ,  and  be  not  afraid  of  death.”  And  William 
answered,  “I  am  not  afraid.”  Then  lift  he  up  his  hands  to  heaven,  and  said,  “Lord, 
Lord,  Lord,  receive  my  spirit”;  and,  casting  down  his  head  again  into  the  smothering 
smoke,  he  yielded  up  his  life  for  the  truth,  sealing  it  with  his  blood  to  the  praise  of 
■God.’1 

The  same  sentiment,  alas,  made  them  tyrants  after  it  had  made 
them  martyrs.  While  the  Reformation  was  demanding  freedom 
of  thought  for  itself,  it  was  violating  that  right  towards  others. 
Both  Reformers  and  Papists  held  it  right  to  inflict  coercion  and 


Fox’s  Book  of  Martyrs. 


278 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


death  upon  those  who  denied  what  they  regarded  as  the  essential 
faith.  The  first  never  doubted  that  truth  was  on  their  side,  the 
second  were  no  less  confident;  and  both  required  with  equal 
ardor  the  princes  of  their  party  to  wield  the  temporal  sword 
against  the  other.  The  innovators  were  not  emancipated  from 
the  corrupt  principles  of  the  age,  and  there  is  no  little  warrant 
for  the  taunt  that  they  were  against  burning  only  when  they 
were  in  fear  of  it  themselves.  Calvin  burned  Servetus  for  heresy. 
Speaking  to  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  he  expressly  says  of  the 
Papists  and  Dissenters,  ‘They  ought  to  be  repressed  by  the 
avenging  sword  which  the  Lord  has  put  into  your  hands.’  Cran- 
mer  caused  a woman  to  be  burned  for  some  opinion  about  the 
Incarnation.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  the  story  of  martyr- 
doms convulsed  the  Catholic  world;  in  that  of  Mary,  nearly 
three  hundred  Protestants  let  themselves  be  burned  rather  than 
abjure;  in  that  of  Elizabeth,  a hundred  and  sixty  Catholics  were 
put  to  death.  We  shall  do  well,  however,  to  bear  in  mind  the 
temper  of  the  men  with  whom  the  Reformers  had  to  deal.  They 
remembered  that  when  their  teaching  began  to  spread  in  the 
Netherlands,  an  edict  was  issued,  under  which  fifty  thousand  of 
them,  first  and  last,  were  deliberately  murdered. 

About  the  year  1520,  when  Luther  publicly  burned  at  Witten- 
berg the  bull  of  Leo  X,  containing  his  condemnation,  the  move- 
ment definitely  began  which  was  to  raise  the  whole  of  Europe 
and  change  the  spiritual  history  of  mankind.  Slowly,  with  mis- 
trust, from  self-interest,  Henry  VIII  laid  the  axe  to  the  tree.  In 
1534,  Parliament  enacted  that  the  king  — 

‘ shall  be  taken,  accepted,  and  reputed  the  only  supreme  Head  in  earth  of  the  Church 
of  England,  and  shall  have  and  enjoy  annexed  and  united  to  the  Imperial  Crown  of  this 
realm  as  well  the  title  and  style  thereof  as  all  the  honors,  jurisdictions,  authorities, 
immunities,  profits,  and  commodities  to  the  said  dignity  belonging,  with  full  power  to 
visit,  repress,  redress,  reform,  and  amend  all  such  errors,  heresies,  abuses,  contempts, 
and  enormities,  which  by  any  manner  of  spiritual  authority  or  jurisdiction  might  or 
may  lawfully  be  reformed.’ 

Denial  was  treason,  and  treason  death.  A second  blow  was 
struck,  and  the  monasteries  were  lopped  off,  their  relics  cast  out, 
their  shrines  levelled,  their  estates  appropriated  by  the  court  and 
nobility,  the  monks  sent  wandering  into  the  world,  and  the  bish- 
ops looked  helplessly  on  while  their  dominion  was  trodden  under 
foot.  Henry  VIII,  by  brute  force,  wrought  out  only  a purified 
Catholicism  differing  in  theory  from  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  on 


THE  REFORMATION. 


279 


the  point  of  supremacy  and  on  that  point  alone.  Above  the  roar 
of  controversy,  he  told  the  people,  in  six  articles,1  how  to  worship 
and  what  to  believe.  Assailed  with  equal  fury  by  those  who 
were  zealous  for  either  the  new  or  the  old,  he  burned  as  heretics 
such  as  avowed  the  tenets  of  Luther,  and  hanged  as  traitors  such 
as  owned  the  authority  of  the  Pope.  His  system,  too  hazardous 
to  maintain,  died  with  him.  Under  the  Regency  of  his  infant 
son,  the  Six  Articles  were  repealed;  the  prohibitions  of  Lollardy 
were  removed ; the  churches  were  emptied  of  pictures  and 
images;  priests,  descending  from  their  stone  altars  to  wooden 
tables,  were  once  more  equals,  and  married  like  the  rest;  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer  was  restored,  to  knock  at  the  door  of 
every  soul  with  its  imposing  supplications;  old  customs  were 
broken.  Cranmer,  who  had  been  slowly  drifting,  set  the  exam- 
ple. ‘This  year,’  says  a contemporary,  ‘the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury did  eat  meat  openly  in  Lent  in  the  hall  of  Lambeth,  the 
like  of  which  was  never  seen  since  England  was  a Christian  coun- 
try.’ 

Mary  undid  all  that  had  been  done  by  her  father  and  brother. 
Not  only  were  the  old  doctrines  and  ceremonies  restored;  the 
supremacy  was  resigned  to  the  Pope.  But  the  new  worship 
became  popular  through  the  triumph  of  its  martyrs,  and  became 
national  on  the  accession  of  Elizabeth  — national  by  the  con- 
straint of  internal  sentiment  and  the  pressure  of  foreign  hostility. 
England  is  henceforth  Protestant;  her  faith,  a part  of  the  Consti- 
tution, an  alliance  of  the  worldly  and  religious  enemies  of  popery, 
a union  of  the  court  and  the  cloister,  of  the  State  and  the  Church; 
linked  to  the  throne  by  the  two  Acts  of  headship  and  uniformity; 
in  its  doctrinal  structure,  tolerant;  in  its  political  structure,  per- 
secuting. For  a government  whose  organic  principle  is  synthetic 
and  monarchical  will  not  patiently  submit  to  dissension  whose 
tendency  is  analytic  and  republican. 

To  this  day,  the  Established  Church  bears  the  visible  imprint 
of  her  origin.  Like  her  imperial  parent,  she  has  her  chief  magis- 
trate; she  retains  episcopacy,  without  declaring  it  to  be  essential; 
she  copies  the  daily  chant  of  the  monk,  though  translating  it  into 
the  vulgar  tongue  and  inviting  the  multitude  to  join  its  voice  to 
that  of  the  minister;  without  asking  for  the  intercession  of  the 

1 Transubstantiation,  celibacy,  vows,  mass,  confession,  withholding  the  cup  from 
the  laity. 


280 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


saints,  she  has  her  festival-days  for  her  great  benefactors;  dis- 
carding a crowd  of  pantomimic  gestures,  she  marks  the  sprinkled 
infant  with  the  sign  of  the  cross;  condemning  the  idolatrous 
adoration  of  the  bread  and  wine,  she  requires  them  to  be  re- 
ceived in  a meekly  kneeling  posture;  rejecting  many  rich  vest- 
ments, she  yet  keeps  the  robe  of  white;  without  the  gloomy 
monotony  of  the  middle-age  litany,  the  organ-led  music  now 
thunders  forth  glory  to  God,  now  whispers  to  the  broken  in 
spirit; — in  short,  a flourishing  branch,  shooting  forth  in  the  open 
air,  amid  satin  doublets  and  stage  attitudes,  amid  youthful  blus- 
ter and  fashionable  prodigality;  friendly  to  the  beautiful,  which 
it  does  not  proscribe,  and  to  fancy,  which  it  does  not  attempt  to 
fetter. 

Only  by  a very  slow  process-  does  the  human  mind  emerge 
from  a system  of  error.  The  excesses  of  vice  had  been  repressed 
without  attacking  its  source.  Many  persons,  with  a severer 
ideal,  thought  that  the  interests  of  pure  religion  required  a 
reform  far  more  searching  and  extensive.  They  would  have  a 
service  without  shred  or  fragment  of  Rome.  One  protests:  ‘I 
can’t  consent  to  wear  the  surplice,  it  is  against  my  conscience; 
I trust  by  the  help  of  God,  I shall  never  put  on  that  sleeve, 
which  is  a mark  of  the  beast.’  And  another:  ‘God  by  Isaiah 
commandeth  not  to  pollute  ourselves  with  the  garments  of  the 
image.’  As  they  could  not  be  convinced,  they  were  persecuted  — 
imprisoned,  fined,  pilloried,  their  noses  slit,  their  ears  cut  off. 
From  being  a sect,  they  consequently  became  a faction.  To 
hatred  of  the  authorized  church  was  added  hatred  of  the  royal 
authority.  So,  underneath  the  established  Protestantism  is 
propagated  an  interdicted  Protestantism, — Puritanism , whose 
intermingled  sentiments,  each  embittering  the  other,  will  pro- 
duce the  English  Revolution. 

If  now  we  inquire  what  were  the  ultimate  results  of  the 
Reformation,  it  can  hardly  escape  observation: 

1.  That  it  banished,  or  nearly  so,  religion  from  politics,  and 
secularized  government. 

2.  That,  leaving  the  mind  subject  to  the  variable  influence 
of  political  institutions,  it  yet  procured,  by  disarming  the  spir- 
itual power,  a great  increase  of  liberty  — a liberty  which  re- 
dounded to  the  advantage  of  morality  and  of  science. 


THE  REFORMATION — EFFECTS. 


281 


3.  That  rejecting  much  of  the  polity  and  ritual  of  the 
mystical  Babylon,  it  rendered  possible  that  steady  movement 
by  which  theology  has  since  been  gravitating  towards  the  moral 
faculty. 

4.  That  it  introduced  religion  into  the  midst  of  the  laity, 
which  till  then  had  been  the  exclusive  domain  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical order. 

5.  That,  begetting  a war  of  tracts  and  disputations,  whether 
conqueror  or  conquered,  it  effected  an  immense  progress  in 
mental  activity. 

6.  That,  by  arousing  Rome  to  impose  upon  herself  an  in- 
stant counter-reform,  it  gave  an  improved  tone  to  all  ecclesi- 
astical grades. 

Inestimable  as  are  these  blessings,  it  were  idle  to  deny  that 

the  Reformation  aggravated,  for  a time,  unavoidably,  some  of 

the  evils  it  was  intended  to  correct.  It  was  the  culminating 

fact  in  a train  of  circumstances  that  had  diffused  through 

© 

Christendom  an  intense  and  vivid  sense  of  Satanic  agency. 
When  the  mind,  without  power  of  sound  judgment,  is  fallen 
upon  times  in  which  tendencies  and  passions  rage  with  tem- 
pestuous violence,  it  turns  readily  to  the  miraculous  as  the 
solution  of  all  phenomena,  and  phantoms  are  transfigured  into 
realities  through  the  mists  of  hope  and  fear.  Men,  supersti- 
tious and  terror-stricken,  listen  then  with  wide  ears  and  fan- 
tastic foreshadowings,  momentarily  expecting  the  thunderbolts 
of  God,  and  feeling  upon  them  the  claw  of  the  devil.  Cran- 
mer,  in  one  of  his  articles  of  visitation,  directs  his  clergy  to 
seek  for  ‘any  that  use  charms,  sorcery,  enchantments,  witch- 
craft, soothsaying,  or  any  like  craft  invented  by  the  Devil .’ 
Under  Henry  VIII,  there  were  a few  executions  for  supposed 
dealings  with  the  Evil  One;  but  the  law  on  the  subject  in  the 
following  reign  was  repealed,  nor  again  renewed  till  the  acces- 
sion of  Elizabeth,  when  other  laws  were  made,  and  executed 
with  severity.  A preacher  before  the  queen,  adverting  to  the 
increase  of  witches,  expressed  a hope  that  the  penalties  might 
be  rigidly  enforced: 

‘May  it  please  your  grace  to  understand  that  witches  and  sorcerers  within  these  few 
years  are  marvellously  increased  within  yonr  grace’s  realm.  Your  grace’s  subjects  pine 
away  even  \mto  the  death;  their  color  fadeth,  their  flesh  rotteth,  their  speech  is  be- 
numbed, their  senses  are  bereft;  ...  I pray  God  they  never  practice  further  than  upon 
the  subject.’ 


282 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


It  must  have  made  the  teeth  chatter  with  fright  to  hear  the  min- 
isters assert: 

‘That  they  have  had  in  their  parish  at  one  instant,  XVII  or  XVIII  witches;  mean- 
ing such  as  could  worke  miracles  supernaturallie;  . . . that  instructed  by  the  devil, 
they  make  ointments  of  the  bowels  and  members  of  children,  whereby  they  ride  in  the 
aire,  and  accomplish  all  their  desires.  )Vhen  a child  is  not  baptized,  or  defended  by  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  then  the  witches  catch  them  from  their  mothers  sides  in  the  night 
. . . kill  them  ...  or  after  buriall  steale  them  out  of  their  graves,  and  seeth  them  in  a 
caldron,  untill  their  flesh  be  made  potable.  ...  It  is  an  infallible  rule,  that  everie  fort- 
night, or  at  the  least  everie  moneth,  each  witch  must  kill  one  child  at  the  least  for  hir 
part.’ 

With  signal  success,  the  witch-finders  pricked  their  victims  all 
over  to  discover  the  insensible  spot,  threw  them  into  the  water  to 
ascertain  whether  they  would  sink  or  swim,  or  deprived  them  of 
sleep  during  successive  nights  to  compel  confession.  Under  a 
milder  judiciary  than  on  the  Continent,  witches  who  had  not 
destroyed  others  by  their  incantations,  were,  for  the  first  convic- 
tion, punished  only  by  the  pillory  and  imprisonment,  while  those 
condemned  to  die,  perished  by  the  gallows  instead  of  the  stake. 
The  cast  of  thought  engendered  by  the  Reformation  is  strikingly 
typified  in  Luther.  Oppressed  by  a keen  sense  of  unworthiness, 
distracted  by  intellectual  doubt,  Satan  was  the  dominating  con- 
ception of  his  life,  the  efficient  cause  in  every  critical  event,  in 
every  mental  perturbation.  In  the  seclusion  of  his  monastery  at 
Wittenberg,  he  constantly  heard  the  Devil  making  a noise  in  the 
cloisters,  even  cracking  nuts  on  his  bed-post.  A stain  on  the 
wall  of  his  chamber  still  marks  the  place  where  he  flung  an  ink- 
bottle  at  the  Devil.  He  became  so  accustomed  to  the  presence 
that,  awakened  on  one  occasion  by  the  sound,  he  perceived  it  to 
be  only  the  Devil,  and  accordingly  went  to  sleep.  ‘Oh,  what 
horrible  spectres  and  figures  I used  to  see  ! ’ None  of  the  infirm- 
ities to  which  he  was  liable  were  natural;  but  his  ear-ache  was 
peculiarly  diabolical.  Physicians  who  attempted  to  explain  dis- 
ease by  natural  causes,  were  ignorant  men,  who  did  not  know  all 
the  power  of  Satan.  Indeed  suicides,  commonly  supposed  to  have 
destroyed  themselves,  had  in  reality  been  seized  and  strangled  by 
the  Devil.  In  strict  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  his  age,  he 
emphatically  proclaimed  the  duty  of  burning  the  witches.  ‘ I 
would  have  no  compassion  on  these  witches,’  he  exclaimed.  ‘ I 
would  burn  them  all ! ’ The  immense  majority  of  the  accused 
were  women  — a fact  explained  not  by  their  nervous  sensibility 


THE  REFORMATION — EFFECTS. 


283 


and  their  consequent  liability  to  religious  epidemics,  but  by  their 
inherent  wickedness.  As  long  as  celibacy  was  esteemed  the 
highest  of  virtues,  divines  exhausted  all  the  resources  of  their 
eloquence  in  describing  the  iniquity  of  the  fair.  By  a natural 
process,  all  the  ‘phenomena  of  love’  came  to  be  regarded  as  most 
especially  under  the  influence  of  the  Devil.  The  tragedy  of 
Macbeth  faithfully  reflects  the  popular  superstition  touching  the 
powers  of  darkness.  The  air  is  lurid  and  thick  with  things  weird 
and  fantastic.  Three  witches  meet  in  dark  communion  — kinless 
— nameless — and  fitly  consult: 


‘ First  W. 

Second  W. 

Third  W. 
First  W. 
Second  W. 
Third  W. 


When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain? 
When  the  hurlyburly’s  done, 
When  the  battle’s  lost  and  won. 
That  will  be  ere  set  of  sun. 
Where  the  place? 

Upon  the  heath; 
There  to  meet  with  Macbeth.’ 


With  wild  utterance,  all,  of  the  moral  confusion  and  murkiness 
of  their  demon’s  heart,  they  vanish: 


‘Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair: 

Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.’ 


Meeting  again  on  the  blasted  heath,  they  recount  to  each  other 
their  exploits: 

‘ First  W.  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister? 

Second  W.  Killing  swine. 

Third  W.  Sister,  where  thou? 

First  W.  A sailor’s  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap. 

And  mounch’d,  and  mounch'd,  and  mounch’d:— 

“Give  me,”  quoth  I: 

“Aroint  thee,  witch!”  the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. 

Her  husband’s  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o’  the  Tiger: 

But  in  a sieve  I’ll  thither  sail, 

And,  like  a rat  without  a tail. 

I’ll  do,  I’ll  do,  and  I’ll  do. 

Second  W.  I’ll  give  thee  a wind. 

First  W.  Thou  art  kind. 

Third  W.  And  I another. 

First  W.  I myself  have  all  the  other, 

And  the  very  ports  they  blow. 

All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
I’  the  shipman’s  card. 

I’ll  drain  him  dry  as  hay: 

Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid; 

He  shall  live  a man  forbid: 

Weary  sev'n-nights,  nine  times  nine, 

Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine: 

Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost. 


284 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost. 

Look  what  I have.— 

Second  W.  Show  me,  show  me.— 

First  W.  Here  I have  a pilot's  thumb, 

Wreck’d  as  homeward  he  did  come.’ 

Distant  and  complex  objects  are  rendered  distorted  and  porten- 
tous in  the  morning  mists  which  the  rising  sun  has  not  yet  dis- 
pelled. 

The  Renaissance.  — In  the  moral,  as  ill  the  physical  world, 
every  night  brightens  into  a new  day.  Ages  of  sloth  are  suc- 
ceeded by  periods  of  energy.  First  the  seed  in  the  soil,  then  the 
harvest — in  endless  recurrence.  Nature  may  sleep,  but  she  will 
wake  again — forever.  It  is  with  man  as  with  the  planet, — change 
is  identified  with  existence,  never  by  leaps,  ever  by  steps;  revolu- 
tionary, periodic;  pulsating  to  the  rhythmic  law  of  the  universe, 
that  swings  to  and  fro  through  the  immeasurable  agitations,  like 
the  shuttle  of  a loom,  and  weaves  a definite  and  comprehensible 
pattern  into  the  otherwise  chaotic  fabric  of  things.  What  the 
Reformation  exhibits  in  the  sphere  of  religion  and  politics,  the 
Revival  of  Letters  displays  in  the  sphere  of  culture,  art,  and 
science, — the  recovered  energy  and  freedom  of  humanity.  Both 
are  effects  or  phases,  each  by  reaction  a stimulant  and  a cause; 
the  first  ethical,  the  second  intellectual;  the  one  Christian,  the 
other  classical  — in  contrasted  language,  pagan;  either,  the  acme 
of  a gradual  and  instinctive  process  of  becoming / neither,  as  we 
have  seen,  without  many  anticipations  and  foreshadowings.  The 
Renaissance,  however,  is  commonly  understood  to  be  the  renova- 
tion of  the  intellect  only  — that  outburst  of  human  intelligence 
which,  abroad  in  the  fifteenth  century  and  at  home  in  the  six- 
teenth, marks  an  epoch  in  human  growth.  What  was  it  in  its 
elements  and  its  origin?  — An  expansion  of  natural  existence, 
and  a zeal  for  the  civilizations  of  Greece  and  Rome,  that  till  the 
fulness  of  time  had  lain  essentially  inoperative  on  the  Dead-Sea 
shore  of  the  middle-age.  It  was  the  resuscitation  of  the  taste, 
the  eloquence,  and  the  song  of  antiquity;  of  the  gods  and  heroes 
of  Olympus,  of  the  eternal  art  and  thought  of  Athens.  It  was, 
after  a long  oblivion,  the  reappearance,  with  others  high  and 
luminous,  of  the  ‘divine  Plato,’  who  alone  among  books  is  enti- 
tled to  Omar’s  fanatical  compliment  to  the  Koran,  — ‘ Burn  the 
libraries,  for  their  value  is  in  this  volume.’  All  who  went  before 


THE  RENAISSANCE. 


285 


were  his  teachers;  all  who  came  after  were  his  debtors.  Every 
thinker  of  grand  proportions  is  his. 1 Whoever  has  given  a 
spiritual  expression  to  truth,  has  voiced  him.  Whoever  has  had 
vision  of  the  realities  of  being,  has  stood  in  his  hallowed  light  — 
the  Elizabethans  not  less.  But  for  the  magnitude  of  his  proper 
genius,  Shakespeare  would  be  the  most  eminent  of  Platonists. 
Would  you  understand  the  lofty  insight,  the  celestial  ardor  of 
the  Fairy  Queen  — first  great  ideal  poem  in  the  English  tongue, 
you  must  reascend  to  the  serene  solitudes  of  Plato,  and  watch  the 
lightnings  of  his  imagination  playing  in  the  illimitable.  His  sen- 
tences are  the  corner-stone  of  speculative  schools,  the  fountain- 
head of  literatures,  the  culture  of  nations.  ‘To  his  doctrines  we 
may  hardly  allude — the  acutest  German,  the  fondest  disciple,  is 
at  fault.’  What  renders  him  immortally  noble,  and  irresistibly 
attractive  to  the  noble,  is  his  moral  aim,  his  sympathy  with  truth 
— truth  arrayed  in  the  unsullied  white  of  heayen.  The  admirable 
earnest  is  the  central  sun: 

* I,  therefore,  Callicles,  am  persuaded  by  these  accounts,  and  consider  how  I may 
exhibit  my  soul  before  the  judge  in  a healthy  condition.  Wherefore  disregarding  the 
honors  that  most  men  value,  and  looking  to  the  truth,  I shall  endeavor  in  reality  to 
live  as  virtuously  as  I can ; and,  when  I die,  to  die  so.  And  I invite  all  other  men,  to 
the  utmost  of  my  power.’ 

Upon  this  dogma  let  the  pillared  firmament  rest: 

‘Let  us  declare  the  cause  which  led  the  Supreme  Ordainer  to  produce  and  com- 
pose the  universe.  He  was  good;  and  he  who  is  good  has  no  kind  of  envy.  Exempt 
from  envy,  he  wished  that  all  things  should  be  as  much  as  possible  like  himself. 
Whosoever,  taught  by  wise  men,  shall  admit  this  as  the  prime  cause  of  the  origin  and 
foundation  of  the  world,  will  be  in  the  truth.’ 

And  human  faith  cleave  to  this,  and  by  it  interpret  the  world: 

. ‘All  things  are  for  the  sake  of  the  good,  and  it  is  the  cause  of  everything  beautiful.* 

Impute  no  ill  to  the  eternal  Radiance,  however  dark  the  prob- 
lem of  human  destiny: 

‘That  which  is  good  is  beneficial ; is  the  cause  of  good.  And,  therefore,  that  which 
is  good  is  not  the  cause  of  all  which  is  and  happens,  but  only  of  that  which  is  as  it 
should  be.  . . The  good  things  we  ascribe  to  God,  whilst  we  must  seek  elsewhere,  and 
not  in  him,  the  causes  of  evil  things.’ 

Towards  this  superlative  perfection,  the  holy,  the  beautiful,  the 
true,  let  reason  lift  itself: 

‘Marvellous  beauty!  eternal,  uncreated,  imperishable  beauty,  free  from  increase 
and  diminution.  . . beauty  which  has  nothing  sensible,  nothing  corporeal,  as  hands  or 
face:  which  does  not  reside  in  any  being  different  from  itself,  in  the  earth,  or  the 

1Aristotle  was  his  pupil,  and  the  critic  of  his  system. 


286 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


heavens,  or  in  any  other  thing,  but  which  exists  eternally  and  absolutely  in  itself , and  by 
itself  ; beauty  of  which  every  other  beauty  partakes,  without  their  birth  or  destruction 
bringing  to  it  the  least  increase  or  diminution.’ 

Alas ! when  we  would  rise,  we  feel  the  weight  of  clay.  Our 
life  is  double: 

‘ The  Deity  himself  formed  the  divine , and  he  delivered  over  to  his  celestial  off- 
spring the  task  of  forming  the  mortal.  These  subordinate  deities,  copying  the  example 
of  their  parent,  and  receiving  from  his  hands  the  immortal  principle  of  the  human  soul, 
fashioned  subsequently  to  this  the  mortal  body,  which  they  consigned  to  the  soul  as  a 
vehicle,  and  in  which  they  placed  another  kind  of  soul,  mortal,  the  seat  of  violent  and 
fatal  affections.’ 

All  the  longing,  all  the  vanity,  all  the  doubt,  the  sorrow,  the 
travail,  of  the  world,  this  man  felt;  and  said  — what  we  are  only 
now  beginning  to  discover  — that  the  soul  had  two  motive  pow- 
ers. Two  winged  steeds,  he  calls  them,  one  princely,  the  other 
plebeian;  and  a charioteer  Reason,  who  endeavors  to  guide  them 
to  the  realized  vision  of  the  ideal: 

‘Now  the  winged  horses,  and  the  charioteer  of  the  gods  are  all  of  them  noble,  and  of 
noble  breed,  while  ours  are  mixed;  and  we  have  a charioteer  who  drives  them  in  a pair, 
and  one  of  them  is  noble  and  of  noble  origin,  and  the  other  is  ignoble  and  of  ignoble 
origin ; and,  as  might  be  expected,  there  is  a great  deal  of  trouble  in  managing  them. 
. . . The  wing  is  intended  to  soar  aloft  and  carry  that  which  gravitates  downwards  into 
the  upper  region,  which  is  the  dwelling  of  the  gods ; and  this  is  that  element  of  the 
body  which  is  most  akin  to  the  divine.  Now  the  divine  is  beauty,  wisdom,  and  good- 
ness and  the  like;  and  by  these  the  wing  of  the  soul  is  nourished,  and  grows  apace; 
but  when  fed  upon  evil  and  foulness,  and  the  like,  wastes  and  falls  away.  Zeus,  the 
mighty  lord  holding  the  reins  of  a winged  chariot,  leads  the  way  in  heaven,  ordering  all 
and  caring  for  all;  and  there  follows  him  the  heavenly  array  of  gods  and  demigods, 
divided  into  eleven  bands;  for  only  Hestia  is  left  at  home  in  the  house  of  heaven;  but 
the  rest  of  the  twelve  greater  deities  march  in  their  appointed  order.  And  they  see  in 
the  interior  of  heaven  many  blessed  sights ; and  there  are  ways  to  and  fro,  along  which 
the  happy  gods  are  passing,  each  one  fulfilling  his  own  work;  and  any  one  may  follow 
who  pleases,  for  jealousy  has  no  place  in  the  heavenly  choir.  This  is  within  the  heaven. 
But  when  they  go  to  feast  and  festival,  then  they  move  right  up  the  steep  ascent,  and 
mount  the  top  of  the  dome  of  heaven.  Now  the  chariots  of  the  gods,  self-balanced, 
upward  glide  in  obedience  to  the  rein ; but  the  others  have  a difficulty,  for  the  steed 
who  has  evil  in  him,  if  he  has  not  been  properly  trained  by  the  charioteer,  gravitates 
and  inclines  and  sinks  towards  the  earth:  and  this  is  the  hour  of  agony  and  extremest 
conflict  of  the  soul.  . . . That  which  follows  God  best  and  is  likest  to  him  lifts  the  head 
of  the  charioteer  into  the  outer  world  and  is  carried  round  in  the  revolution,  troubled 
indeed  by  the  steeds,  and  beholding  true  being,  but  hardly;  another  rises  and  falls,  and 
sees,  and  again  fails  to  see  by  reason  of  the  unruliness  of  the  steeds.  The  rest  of  the 
souls  are  also  longing  after  the  upper  world  and  they  all  follow,  but  not  being  strong 
enough  they  sink  into  the  gulf  as  they  are  carried  round,  plunging,  treading  on  one 
another,  striving  to  be  first;  and  there  is  confusion  and  the  extremity  of  effort,  and 
many  of  them  are  lamed  or  have  their  wings  broken  by  the  ill  driving  of  the  chariot- 
eers; and  all  of  them  after  a fruitless  toil  go  away  without  being  initiated  into  the 
mysteries  of  being,  and  are  nursed  with  the  food  of  opinion.  The  reason  of  their  great 
desire  to  behold  the  plain  of  truth  is  that  the  food  which  is  suited  to  the  highest  part  of  the 
soul  comes  out  of  that  meadow;  and  the  wing  on  which  the  soul  soars  is  nourished  with 
this.' 


THE  RENAISSANCE. 


287 


No  wonder  Platonism  is  immortal  — immortal  because  its  vitality 
is  not  that  of  one  or  another  blood  but  of  human  nature. 

But  the  recovered  consciousness  of  Europe  — signalized  and 
quickened  by  the  admiration  for  the  antique  — was  especially 
marked  by  a general  efflorescence  of  the  beautiful.  Among 
the  Greeks,  the  central  conception  of  art  was  the  glory  of  the 
human  body.  As  their  mythology  passed  gradually  into  the 
realm  of  poetry,  statues  that  once  were  objects  of  earnest  prayer 
came  to  be  viewed  with  the  glance  of  the  artist  or  the  critic. 
Reverence  was  displaced  by  allegory  and  imagination;  worship 
of  the  object,  by  the  wrorship  of  form.  It  was  Greece,  arisen 
from  the  tomb,  that  in  this  unique  era  of  human  intelligence 
bequeathed  those  almost  passionate  models  which  have  been  the 
wonder  and  the  delight  of  all  succeeding  ages.  Man,  long  en- 
veloped in  a cowl,  awoke  to  beauty.  Painting  and  sculpture, 
from  being  a frigid  reproduction  of  entranced  eyes  and  sunken 
chests,  became  instinct  with  strong  and  happy  life.  The  atten- 
uated Christ  was  transformed  into  ‘a  crucified  Jupiter,’  the  pale 
Virgin  into  a lovely  girl,  the  dried-up  saint  into  a ready  athlete. 
Similar  was  the  transition  in  architecture.  The  Gothic  style, 
whose  sombre  and  solemn  images  had  awed  barbarian  energies  to 
rest,  was  supplanted  by  the  classic,  more  gorgeous,  gay,  and  fair, 
fashioned  from  the  temples  of  antiquity,  and  aspiring  to  an  ex- 
cellence purely  aesthetic.  With  the  erection  of  St.  Peter’s,  the 
age  of  cathedrals  was  passed. 

Luxurious  Italy,  as  previously  observed,  led  the  way.  The 
fourteenth  century  was  her  period  of  high  and  original  invention 
— the  age  of  the  sombre  Dante,  the  passionate  Petrarch,  and  the 
joyous  Boccaccio.  The  fifteenth  was  the  age  of  rapturous  devo- 
tion to  classic  antiquity,  when  the  merchant  bartered  his  rich 
freights  for  a few  worm-eaten  folios,  and  the  gift  of  manuscripts 
healed  the  dissensions  of  rival  states;  an  age  as  remarkable  for 
the  dispersion  of  learning  as  the  other  had  been  for  the  concen- 
tration of  talent.  The  sixteenth  was  the  exhilarating  Augustan 
age  of  the  Italian  muse,  when  she  had  regained  her  freedom  in 
the  court  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  was  pouring  forth  in 
spontaneous  plenty  everything  brilliant,  or  fragrant,  or  nourish- 
ing; the  age  of  the  mighty  Angelo  — of  the  social  Ariosto,  whose 
stanzas  were  sung  in  the  streets  and  fields  — of  the  solitary  Tasso, 


288 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


whose  Jerusalem , broken  up  into  ballads  and  sung  by  the  gondo- 
liers in  Venice,  made  the  air  vocal  on  a tranquil  summer  evening. 
It  was  also,  as  well  as  the  preceding,  an  age  of  adolescence,  when 
men  were,  and  dared  to  be,  themselves  for  good  or  for  evil.  There 
was  no  limit  to  the  development  of  personality.  In  the  midst  of 
all  the  forms  of  loveliness  was  an  unbridled  laxity  in  literature 
and  morals.  ‘We  must  enjoy,’  sang  Lorenzo:  ‘there  is  no  cer- 
tainty of  to-morrow.’  Fair  Florence,  in  Carnival,  rung  to  the 
thoughtless  refrain  of  ‘Naught  ye  know  about  to-morrow’: 

‘Midas  treads  a wearier  measure: 

All  he  touches  turns  to  gold: 

If  there  be  no  taste  of  pleasure, 

What’s  the  use  of  wealth  untold?  . . . 

Listen  well  to  what  we're  saying; 

Of  to-morrow  have  no  care ! 

Young  and  old  together  playing 
Boys  and  girls  be  blithe  as  air! 

Every  sorry  thought  forswear! 

Keep  perpetual  holiday. — 

Youths  and  maids,  enjoy  to-day; 

Naught  ye  know  about  to-morrow.1 

‘Some  people,’  said  Pulci,  glancing  towards  the  dark  Beyond, 
‘ think  they  will  there  discover  fig-peckers,  plucked  ortolans,  ex- 
cellent wine,  good  beds,  and  therefore  they  follow  the  monks, 
walking  behind  them.  As  for  us,  dear  friend,  we  shall  go  into 
the  black  valley,  where  we  shall  hear  no  more  alleluias.’  Side  by 
side  with  the  infatuation  for  harmony  and  grace,  flourished  the 
passion  for  pleasure  and  voluptuousness;  and  the  reproach  even 
of  indecency  lies  heavily,  in  all  the  nakedness  of  detail,  upon 
most  of  the  Italian  novelists.  To  the  poets,  love  furnishes  the 
animating  impulse;  and  amid  the  clouds  of  amorous  incense  we 
rarely  discern,  with  a few  honorable  exceptions,  an  ennobling 
sentiment  or  a moral  purpose.  A mistress  frowns,  and  the  Flor- 
entine lover  cries: 

‘Fire,  fire!  Ho,  water!  for  my  heart’s  afire! 

Ho,  neighbors ! help  me,  or  by  God  I die ! 

See,  with  his  standard,  that  great  lord,  Desire ! 

He  sets  my  heart  aflame:  in  vain  I cry. 

Too  late,  alas ! The  flames  mount  high  and  higher. 

Alack,  good  friends ! I faint,  I fail,  I die. 

Ho!  water,  neighbors  mine!  no  more  delay! 

My  heart’s  a cinder  if  you  do  but  stay.1 

He  is  not  elevated, — inflated  only  and  conventional.  He  desires 
to  give  play  to  his  imagination,  and  to  please  his  facile  fair  one 


THE  RENAISSANCE. 


289 


with  the  fluency  of  his  vows.  You  may  see  it  in  the  levity  of 
his  love  declarations: 

‘Wherefore,  O lady,  break  the  ice  at  length; 

Make,  thou,  too,  trial  of  love’s  fruits  and  flowers: 

When  in  thine  arms  thou  feelst  thy  lover's  strength, 

Thou  wilt  repent  of  all  these  wasted  hours: 

Husbands,  they  know  not  love,  its  breadth  and  length, 

Seeing  their  hearts  are  not  on  fire  like  ours: 

Things  longed  for  give  most  pleasure;  this  I tell  thee; 

If  still  thou  doubtest  let  the  proof  compel  thee.’ 

You  may  see  it,  best  of  all,  in  his  fifteenth  century  code: 

‘Honor,  pure  love,  and  perfect  gentleness, 

Weighed  in  the  scales  of  equity  refined, 

Are  but  one  thing:  beauty  is  naught  or  less, 

Placed  in  a dame  of  proud  and  scornful  mind.  . . . 

I ask  no  pardon  if  I follow  Love; 

Since  every  gentle  heart  is  thrall  thereof. 

Let  him  rebuke  me  whose  hard  heart  of  stone 
Ne’er  felt  of  Love  the  summer  in  his  vein! 

I pray  to  Love  that  who  hath  never  known 

Love’s  power  may  ne'er  be  blessed  with  Love’s  great  gain; 

But  he  who  serves  our  lord  with  might  and  main 
May  dwell  forever  in  the  fire  of  Love!' 

Three  paganisms  are  thus  imported  from  the  South  to  con- 
tribute to  the  taste  of  the  North, — Greek,  Latin  and  Italian,  the 
last  circulating  fresh  sap  through  the  other  two.  Between  the 
ancient  world  and  the  modern  stands  the  genius  of  Italy  as  in- 
terpreter. England,  when  most  strenuous  in  severing  her  spirit- 
ual relations,  cultivates  most  closely  her  intellectual.  The  new 
knowledge  came  like  a fertilizing  flood  upon  the  ‘island  of  the 
silver  sea.’  Dean  Colet  from  his  Greek  studies  at  Florence  re- 
turned with  the  key  to  unlock  the  New  Testament,  and  to  dis- 
cover a rational  and  practical  religion  in  the  Gospels  themselves. 
‘I  have  given  up  my  whole  soul  to  Greek  learning,’  says  the 
young  Erasmus,  with  chivalrous  enthusiasm;  ‘and  as  soon  as  I 
get  any  money,  I shall  buy  Greek  books,  and  then  I shall  buy 
some  clothes.’  Formerly  Italian  scholars  had  been  employed  to 
compose  the  public  orations,  but  now  he  could  write:  ‘I  have 
found  in  Oxford  so  much  polish  and  learning  that  now  I hardly 
care  about  going  to  Italy  ait  all,  save  for  the  sake  of  having  been, 
there.  When  I listen  to  my  friend  Colet,  it  seems  like  listening 
to  Plato  himself.’  Colet,  beginning  the  work  of  educational 
Teform,  established  a public  school,  in  which  the  scholastic  logic 
was  displaced,  the  steady  diffusion  of  the  classics  enjoined,  and 
19 


290 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


the  old  methods  abolished.  The  spirit  of  the  founder  might  be 
seen  in  the  image  of  the  child  Jesus  over  the  gate,  with  the 
words  graven  beneath  it,  ‘Hear  ye  Him.’  ‘Lift  up  your  little 
white  hands  for  me,’  he  wrote,  ‘which  prayeth  for  you  to  God.’ 
Vain  was  the  cry  of  alarm.  ‘No  wonder,’  wrote  More  to  the 
dean,  ‘your  school  raises  a storm,  for  it  is  like  the  wooden  horse 
in  which  armed  Greeks  were  hidden  for  the  ruin  of  barbarous 
Troy.’  The  example  bred  a crowd  of  imitators.  More  grammar 
schools  were  founded  in  the  later  years  of  Henry  than  in  three 
hundred  years  before.  Higher  education  passed  from  death  to 
life.  Of  Cambridge,  Erasmus,  invited  there  as  a teacher  of 
Greek,  says: 

‘Scarcely  thirty  years  ago  nothing  was  taught  here  but  the  Parva  Logicalia  of 
Alexander,  antiquated  exercises  from  Aristotle,  and  the  Qucestiones  of  Scotus.  As 
time  went  on  better  studies  were  added  — mathematics,  a new,  or  at  any  rate  a reno- 
vated, Aristotle,  and  a knowledge  of  Greek  literature.  What  has  been  the  result? 
The  university  is  now  so  flourishing  that  it  can  compete  with  the  best  university  of 
the  age.’ 

At  Oxford,  the  fierceness  of  the  opposition  evinces  the  strength 
of  the  revival.  The  contest  took  the  form  of  hostile  division  into 
Greeks  and  Trojans — the  former  the  advocates  of  the  New  Learn- 
ing, the  latter  its  opponents.  But  even  here  the  battle  was  soon 
over.  ‘ The  students,’  said  an  eye-witness,  ‘ rush  to  the  Greek 
letters;  they  endure  watching,  fasting,  toil,  and  hunger,  in  the 
pursuit  of  them.’  The  movement,  however,  suddenly  received  a 
temporary  check.  The  impulse  given  by  the  reformers  was  pri- 
marily incidental,  for  to  them  the  Greek  Testament  was  the 
armory  from  which  they  drew  their  weapons  of  defence  and  of 
assault;  while  the  immediate  effects  of  the  Reformation,  both  by 
revolutionizing  the  ecclesiastical  system  and  by  withdrawing  aca- 
demic abilities  into  the  abyss  of  controversy,  were  depressing. 
Latimer  calculated  that  the  number  of  students  at  the  two  uni- 
versities was  fewer  by  ten  thousand  after  the  alienation  of  abbey 
and  church  lands  had  left  no  mercenary  attractions  in  the  sacred 
offices.  Religion  lost  some  of  its  charms  when  the  golden  pros- 
pect was  gone.  About  the  same  time  (1550),  an  observer  says 
curiously: 

‘Formerly  there  were  in  houses  belonging  to  the  University  of  Cambridge,  two 
hundred  students  of  divinity,  many  very  well  learned,  which  be  now  all  clean  gone 
home;  and  many  young  toward  scholars,  and  old  fatherly  doctors,  not  one  of  them 
left.  One  hundred  also,  of  another  sort,  that,  having  rich  friends,  or  being  beneficed 
men,  did  live  of  themselves  in  hotels  and  inns,  be  either  gone  away  or  else  fain  to 


THE  RENAISSANCE. 


291 


creep  into  colleges  and  put  poor  men  from  bare  livings.  These  both  be  all  gone,  and 
a small  number  of  poor,  godly,  diligent  students,  now  remaining  only  in  colleges,  be 
not  able  to  tarry  and  continue  their  studies  for  lack  of  exhibition  and  help.’ 

Of  the  poorer  and  more  diligent  students  he  adds  the  interesting 
picture: 

‘There  be  divers  there  which  rise  daily  about  four  or  five  of  the  clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  from  five  till  six  of  the  clock  use  common  prayer,  with  an  exhortation  of  God1? 
word  in  a common  chapel ; and  from  six  until  ten  of  the  clock  use  ever  either  private 
study  or  common  lectures.  At  ten  of  the  clock  they  go  to  dinner,  whereas  they  be 
content  with  a penny  piece  of  beef  among  four,  having  a few  pottage  made  of  the 
broth  of  the  same  beef,  with  salt  and  oatmeal,  and  nothing  else.  After  this  slender 
diet,  they  be  either  teaching  or  learning  until  five  of  the  clock  in  the  evening; 
whenas  they  have  a supper  not  much  better  than  their  dinner.  Immediately  after 
which  they  go  either  to  reasoning  in  problems,  or  to  some  other  study,  until  it  be 
nine  or  ten  of  the  clock;  and  then,  being  without  fires,  are  fain  to  walk  or  run  up 
and  down  half  an  hour,  to  get  a heat  on  their  feet  when  they  go  to  bed.’ 

In  the  adverse  reign  of  Mary,  Trinity  College  was  endowed,  more 
especially  for  the  cultivation  of  classical  scholarship.  Its  founder 
states  in  a letter: 

4 My 'Lord  Cardinal’s  Grace  has  had  the  overseeing  of  my  statutes.  He  much 
likes  well  that  I have  therein  ordered  the  Latin  tongue  to  be  read  to  my  scholars. 
But  he  advises  me  to  order  the  Greek  to  be  more  taught  there  than  I have  provided. 
This  purpose  I well  like;  but  I fear  the  times  will  not  bear  it  now.  I remember 
when  I was  a young  scholar  at  Eton,  the  Greek  tongue  was  growing  apace ; the  study 
of  which  is  now  alate  much  decayed.’ 

The  languishing  culture  revived  towards  the  close  of  Elizabeth’s 
reign,  when  the  ‘times’  were  far  more  propitious.  Insensibly, 
through  the  shocks  and  convulsions  of  opinion,  the  influences  of 
the  Renaissance  had  been  enriching  the  soil  for  the  harvest. 
When  the  first  fanaticisms  of  misguided  zealots  had  subsided,  the 
interest  in  letters  recovered  and  spread  with  unwonted  vigor. 
The  tone  of  the  universities  wholly  changed.  Scholars  like 
Hooker  could  now  be  found  in  the  ranks  of  the  priesthood  — 
against  whom  it  had  been  a common  note  in  the  official  visita- 
tions, ‘He  knows  a few  Latin  words,  but  no  sentences.’  The 
Court  was  distinguished  for  its  elegance.  Maids  of  honor  were 
readers  of  Plato.  The  Queen  could  quote  Pindar  and  Homer  in 
the  original,  and  read  every  morning  a portion  of  Demosthenes. 
It  was  preeminently  the  age  of  learned  ladies.  Says  Harrison: 

‘Truly  it  is  a rare  thing  with  us  now  to  hear  of  a courtier  which  hath  but  his  own 
language.  And  to  say  how  many  gentlewomen  and  ladies  there  are  that,  besides 
sound  knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  tongues,  are  thereto  no  less  skilful  in  Spanish, 
Italian,  and  French,  or  in  some  one  of  them,  it  resteth  not  in  me.’ 

The  abundance  of  printers  and  of  printed  books  is  evidence  that 
the  world  of  readers  and  writers  had  widened  much  beyond  the 


292 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 

I 


circle  of  courtiers  and  of  prelates.  Yet  the  light  that  shone 
remarkably  upon  the  heights,  was  by  no  means  generally  dis- 
persed. Many  of  the  rank  were  illiterate,  the  majority  of  the 
middle-class  were  uneducated,  while  the  lower  orders  were  in 
comparative  darkness.  As  late  as  Edward  VI  there  were  peers 
of  Parliament  unable  to  read.  It  is  a question  whether  Shake- 
speare’s father,  an  alderman  of  Stratford,  could  write  his  name. 
The  educative  theory  was  based  upon  the  principle  that  varieties 
of  inapplicable  knowledge  might  be  good  where  accessible,  but 
were  not  essential.  Two  things  were  indispensable, — ability  to 
labor  and  skill  in  arms.  Every  boy  between  seven  and  seventeen 
was  required  to  be  provided  with  a long-bow  and  two  arrows; 
and  every  Englishman  older,  to  provide  himself  with  a bow  and 
four  arrows.  It  was  the  spirit  of  this  law  which  Ascham,  the 
schoolmaster  of  the  period,  is  enforcing  when  he  says  of  his  own 
tutor: 

‘ This  worshipful  man  hath  ever  loved,  and  used  to  have  many  children  brought  up 
in  learning  in  his  house,  amonges  whom  I myself  was  one,  for  whom  at  term  times  he 
would  bring  down  from  London  both  bow  and  shafts.  And  when  they  should  play  he 
would  go  with  them  himself  into  the  field,  see.  them  shoot,  and  he  that  shot  the  fairest 
should  have  the  best  bow  and  shafts,  and  he  that  shot  ill-favoredly  should  be  mocked  of 
his  fellows  till  he  shot  better.  Would  to  God  all  England  had  used  or  would  use  to  lay 
the  foundation  of  youth  after  the  example  of  this  worshipful  man  in  bringing  up  children 
in  the  Book  and  the  Bow;  by  which  two  things  the  whole  commonwealth  both  in  peace 
and  war  is  chiefly  valid  and  defended  withal.’ 

Latimer,  preaching  before  the  king  in  1549,  draws  the  portrait  of 
a yeoman: 

‘In  my  time  my  poor  father  was  as  diligent  to  teach  me  to  shoot  as  to  learn  me  any 
other  thing;  and  so,  I think,  other  men  did  their  children.  He  taught  me  how  to  draw, 
how  to  lay  my  body  in  my  bow,  and  not  to  draw  with  strength  of  arms,  as  other  nations 
do,  but  with  strength  of  the  body.  I had  my  bows  bought  me  according  to  my  age  and 
strength;  as  I increased  in  them,  so  my  bows  were  made  bigger  and  bigger;  for  men 
shall  never  shoot  well  except  they  be  brought  up  in  it.  It  is  a goodly  art,  a wholesome 
kind  of  exercise,  and  much  commended  in  physic.’ 

But  what  is  more  to  our  present  purpose  is,  that  the  true  sig- 
nificance of  the  Renaissance  consists,  not  in  any  accidental  emi- 
gration of  Greek  scholars  and  importation  of  ancient  manuscripts 
from  Constantinople,  nor  chiefly  in  the  passion  for  classical  lore, 
but  in  that  general  ferment  which  produced,  on  the  whole, 
marked  effects  upon  all  classes,  — in  that  new  life  by  which  every 
province  of  human  intelligence  and  action  was  refreshed.  A far 
higher  development,  indeed,  than  the  Greek  or  Latin  mania, 
sprang  from  the  nearer  and  more  seductive  paganism  of  Italy, 


LANGUAGE. 


293 


partly  through  travel,  partly  through  her  poetry  and  romance. 
A land  of  tropical  gardens  and  splendid  skies,  of  public  pageants 
and  secret  tragedies,  of  brilliant  fancies  and  gorgeous  contrasts, 
she  fascinated  the  Northern  imagination  with  a strange  wild 
glamour.  ‘An  Italianate  Englishman,’  ran  the  Italian  proverb, 
‘ is  an  incarnate  devil.’  Our  ancestral  youth  who  repair  to  her 
for  polish  and  inspiration  or  in  quest  of  fanciful  adventure,  are 
warned  of  her  alluring  charms: 

‘ And  being  now  in  Italy,  that  great  limbique  of  working  braines,  he  must  be  very 
circumspect  in  his  carriage,  for  she  is  able  to  turne  a Saint  into  a devil,  and  deprave 
the  best  natures,  if  one  will  abandon  himselfe,  and  become  a prey  to  dissolute 
courses  and  wantonesse.’ 

Ascham  writes  with  the  alarm  and  severity  of  a rigorist: 

4 These  bee  the  inchantementes  of  Circes,  brought  out  of  Italie  to  marre  mens 
maners  in  England;  much,  by  example  of  ill  life,  but  more  by  preceptes  of  fonde 
bookes,  of  late  translated  out  of  Italian  into  English,  sold  in  every  shop  in  London. 
. . . There  bee  moe  of  these  ungratious  bookes  set  out  in  Printe  wythin  these  fewe 
monethes,  than  have  been  sene  in  England  many  score  yeares  before.  . . . Than 
they  have  in  more  reverence  the  triumphes  of  Petrarche:  than  the  Genesis  of  Moses: 
They  make  more  account  of  Tullies  offices,  than  S.  Paules  epistles:  of  a tale  in 
Bocace  than  a storie  of  the  Bible.’ 

If  the  breath  of  the  South  was  tainted,  it  was  spirit-stirring;  and 
the  healthier  constitution  which  inhaled  it,  purged  off  much  of 
its  mischief,  while  it  assimilated  the  beneficial.  The  contem- 
plative vein  of  the  Briton  was  quickened  by  the  brilliancy  of  the 
Italian.  That  which  in  the  first  became  a superb  corporeality, 
became  in  the  second  a vehement  and  unconventional  spirituality. 
The  debt  of  English  to  Italian  literature  consists, — in  material  of 
production  — the  impulse  towards  creation  — a keener  sense  of 
the  tragic  — a livelier  sense  of  the  beautiful  — a more  copious 
diction  — and  a more  finished  style. 

Language.  — Of  the  monstrous  anomalies  of  the  current  or 
colloquial  speech,  the  following  note  from  the  Duchess  of  Norfolk 
to  Cromwell  is  a curious  instance: 

4 My  ffary  gode  lord  — her  I sand  you  in  tokyn  hoff  the  neweyer  a glasse  hofi 
■Setyl  set  in  Sellfer  gyld  I pra  you  tak  hit  (in)  wort  An  hy  wer  babel  het  showlde 
be  bater  I woll  hit  war  wort  a m crone.’ 

So  unsettled  was  our  orthography  still,  that  writers,  each  in 
his  peculiar  mode  of  spelling,  did  not  write  the  same  words  uni- 
formly. Elizabeth,  the  royal  mistress  of  eight  languages,  wrote 
sovereign  seven  different  ways,  while  the  name  of  Villers , in  the 


294 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


deeds  of  that  family,  has  fourteen  different  forms.  Shakespeare 
is  found  in  the  manuscripts  of  the  period  spelled  in  any  manner 
that  may  express  the  sound  or  the  semblance  of  it.  Many  of  the 
learned  engaged  in  the  ambitious  reform  of  teaching  the  nation 
how  to  spell  and  pronounce.  But  the  pronunciation  was  so  dis- 
cordant in  different  shires,  that  the  orthoepists  are  quite  irrecon- 
cilable with  each  other  or  with  themselves.  Some  may  amuse. 
One  would  turn  the  language  into  a music-book.  He  says: 

‘ In  true  orthographie,  both  the  eye , the  voice , and  the  eare  must  consent  perfectly, 
without  any  let,  doubt,  or  maze.’ 

Another  affords  a quaint  definition  of  orthoepy  combined  with 
orthography : 

* Orthographic,  conteyning  the  due  order  and  reason  howe  to  write  or  painte  thimage 
of  manners  voice,  moste  like  to  the  life  or  nature.’ 

While  Shakespeare  sarcastically  describes  the  whole  race  of 
philologists:  ‘Now  he  is  turned  orthographer , his  words  are  a 
very  fantastical  banquet;  just  so  many  strange  dishes.’  The 
English  Bible  had  been  the  strong  breakwater  against  the  tides 
of  novelty  and  the  vicissitudes  of  time;  and  Tyndale’s  New  Tes- 
tament, executed  in  the  traditional  sacred  dialect  of  Wycliffe, 
did  more  to  fashion  and  fix  our  tongue  than  any  other  native 
work  from  Chaucer  to  Shakespeare.  The  Lord’s  Prayer  illus- 
trates well  its  force  and  purity  of  expression: 

iOnr  Father,  which  arte  in  heven,  halowed  he  thy  name.  Let  thy  kingdom  come. 
Thy  wyll  he  fulfilled,  as  well  in  erth  as  hit  ys  in  heven.  Geve  vs  this  daye  oure  dayly 
hreade,  and  forgeve  vs  oure  treaspasses,  even  as  we  forgeve  them,  which  treaspas  vs. 
Leede  vs  not  into  temptacion,  hut  delyvre  vs  from  yvell.  Amen.’ 

In  1575,  standard  English  had  so  progressed  in  simplicity  and 
power,  that  Sidney  could  say,  to  his  honor: 

‘English  is  void  of  those  cumbersome  differences  of  cases,  genders,  moods,  and 
tenses,  which  I think  was  a piece  of  the  Tower  of  Babylon  s curse,  that  a man  should 
he  put  to  schoole  to  learn  his  mother  tongue ; hut  for  the  uttering  sweetly  and  properly 
the  conceit  of  the  minde,  which  is  the  ende  of  speech,  that  it  hath  equally  with  any 
other  tongue  in  the  world.’ 

Travel  and  commerce,  enlarging  with  the  rapid  progress  of 
geographical  discovery,  made  numerous  and  important  accessions 
to  the  vocabulary.  New  wares  were  introduced,  new  stores  of 
natural  knowledge  flowed  in  from  regions  hitherto  unknown. 
For  a single  instance  of  the  manv  terms  which  thus  rose  above 
the  horizon,  seldom  more  grateful  if  less  material,  potato 1 now 


1 From  the  Indian  batata. 


LANGUAGE  — ORGANIZED  COMPLETION. 


295 


made  its  first  appearance  in  Europe,  imported  from  America. 
Of  this  .esculent  tuber,  a voyager  makes  the  following  mention: 

‘ Openark  are  a kinde  of  roots  of  round  forme,  some  farre  greater,  which  are  found 
in  moist  and  marish  grounds,  growing  many  together,  one  by  another  in  ropes,  as  though 
they  were  fastened  by  a string.  Being  boiled  or  sodden,  they  are  very  good  meat.’ 

A more  prolific  origin  of  new  words  than  the  taste  for  sea  rov- 
ing was  the  intense  thirst  after  religious  discussion.  The  Refor- 
mation enriched  our  theological  dialect  by  the  translation  of 
many  moral  and  religious  works  from  the  Latin;  and  the  very 
general  study  of  theology  rendered  this  dialect  more  familiar 
than  that  of  any  other  branch  of  letters.  Latin,  moreover,  was 
the  great  link  between  our  Reformers  and  those  of  the  Conti- 
nent, and  the  new  ideas  taking  root,  brought  in  shoals  of  new 
terms.  Finally,  the  versions  of  classical  authors,  after  the  brief 
reaction  against  classical  learning,  were  an  inexhaustible  mine 
of  linguistic  wealth;  and  the  ‘far-journeyed  gentlemen’  re- 
turned not  only  in  love  with  foreign  fashions,  but  equally  fond 
‘to  powder  their  talk  with  over-sea  language.’  The  influx  of 
foreign  neologisms  alarmed  the  purists,  who  always  deem  that 
English  corrupt  which  recedes  from  its  Saxon  character.  Says 
Wilson  in.  1550: 

‘ Some  seke  so  farre  for  outlandishe  Englisbe,  that  thei  forgette  altogether  their 
mothers’  language,  ...  He  that  commeth  lately  out  of  France,  will  talke  Frenche- 
English,  and  never  blush  at  the  matter.  The  unlearned  or  foolishe  phantasticall  that 
the  simple  cannot  but  wonder  at  their  talke  and  thinke  surely  thei  speake  by  some  rev- 
elacion.  I know  them  that  thinke  Rlietorique  to  stand  whollie  upon  darke  woordes,  and 
he  that  can  catche  an  ynke  home  terme  by  the  taile,  hym  thei  coumpt  to  be  a fine  Eng- 
lishman and  a good  Rhetorician.’ 

Notwithstanding,  in  1583  Mulcaster  wrote:  ‘The  English  tung 
cannot  prove  fairer  than  it  is  at  this  day.’  Querulous  critic  and 
rash  soothsayer ! The  one  did  not  reflect  that  an  expansion  of 
thought  compels  an  expansion  of  its  garniture,  and  could  not 
know  that  even  Chaucer’s  ‘well  of  English  undefiled’  was  a well 
in  which  were  deposited  many  waters;  while  the  other  could  not 
foresee  the  luxuriant  productiveness,  the  powerful  stimulus,  of 
the  next  thirty  years.  A single  example  may  suggest  something* 
of  that  variety  and  affluence  by  which  the  speech,  once  so  rude 
and  impotent,  was  being  made  ready  for  the  enlarged  and  diver- 
sified conceptions  of  the  great  masters:  wrath  and  ire 1 came  over 
with  Hengist;  the  Danes  brought  anger / the  French  supplied 


1 From  Saxon  yrre. 


296 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


rage  and  'fury  ; the  Latin  indignation ; the  Greek  choler y and 
we  now,  it  may  be  added,  confer  this  sense  on  passion.  As  a 
final  illustration  of  the  state  of  English  orthography  in  its  pro- 
cess of  evolution,  we  extract  the  following  from  the  address  of 
Brutus  to  the  people  in  the  drama  of  Julius  C cesar,  written  in 
or  before  1601,  and  printed  in  1623: 

‘I  have  done  no  more  to  Caesar  than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The  Question  of  his 
death,  is  inroll'd  in  the  Capitol : his  Glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy ; nor 
his  offences  enforc’d,  for  which  he  suffered  death. 

Heere  comes  his  Body,  mourned  by  Harke  Antony,  who  though  he  had  no  hand  in  his 
death,  shall  receiue  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a place  in  the  Commonwealth,  as^which  of 
yon  shall  not.  With  this  I depart,  that  as  I slewe  my  best  Loner  for  the  good  of  Rome, 
I haue  the  same  Dagger  for  my  selfe,  when  it  shall  please  my  Country  to  need  my  death. 

All.  Liue  Brutus , liue,  line. 

1.  Bring  him  with  Triumph  home  vnto  his  house. 

2.  Giue  him  a Statue  with  his  Ancestors. 

3.  Let  him  be  Caesar. 

4.  Ccesars  better  parts 
Shall  be  Crown’d  in  Brutus. 

1.  Wee’l  bring  him  to  his  House,  with  Showts  and  Clamors. 

Bru.  My  Country-men. 

2.  Peace,  silence,  Brutus  speakes 

1.  Peace  ho. 

Bru.  Good  Countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone, 

And  (for  my  sake)  stay  heere  with  Antony: 

Do  grace  to  Caesars  Corpes,  and  grace  his  Speech 
Tending  to  Caesars  Glories,  which  Marke  Antony 
(By  our  permission)  is  allow’d  to  make. 

I do  intreat  you  not  a man  depart, 

Saue  I alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.’ 

Here  our  survey  is  approximately  complete.  We  have  arrived 
at  the  stage  where  new  capabilities  are  no  longer  imperiously 
demanded  by  the  advancement  of  culture.  The  nursling  has 
become  a child,  the  child  a man, — still,  with  proper  training,  to 
acquire  additional  flexibility  and  strength,  yet  to  remain  substan- 
tially the  same.  The  closing  century  that  witnessed  the  vast  and 
varied  revelation  of  man’s  moral  nature,  witnessed  also  the  end 
of  that  organic  action  by  which  the  English  language  was  devel- 
oped from  its  elements  and  constitutionally  fixed,  unfettered  and 
many-voiced.  Your  daughter,  O Thor  and  Odin,  has  indeed  lost 
the  likeness  of  her  mother,  but, — 

‘Not  from  one  metal  alone  the  perfectest  mirror  is  shapen, 

Not  from  one  color  is  built  the  rainbow's  aerial  bridge: 

Instruments  blending  together  yield  the  divinest  of  music. 

Out  of  myriad  of  flowers  sweetest  of  honey  is  drawn.’1 


W.  W.  Story. 


POETRY  — REALISM. 


297 


Poetry.  — Do  but  consider  the  life  of  man,  that  we  are  as  a 
shadow  and  our  days  as  a post,  then  think  whether  it  were  good 
to  disinter  the  lifeless  versifiers  who  fill  up  the  spaces  around  and 
between  the  noticeable  elevations  of  this  age,  with  scarce  a soul 
to  a hundred,  and  of  interest  to  poetical  antiquarians  only. 
Chaucer,  it  has  been  seen,  left  nothing  to  resemble  him.  Gower 
is  a feeble  spring,  obstructed  by  scholastic  rubbish.  Occleve  and 
Lydgate  are  as  dead  sea-moss  on  a barren  shore.  The  Scotch 
poets,  with  more  energy,  are  yet  nebulae,  which  no  telescope 
could  resolve  into  individual  stars.  Where  they  mean  to  be 
serious,  they  are  tedious;  and  where  lofty,  pedantic.  Their  com- 
positions, with  scattering  remembrances  of  beauty  or  occasional 
throbs  of  true  vitality,  have  the  same  vices  of  unreality  and 
allegory  which  were  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Verse  that  makes 
us  foreigners  is  no  poetry. 

One  writer  alone,  in  its  early  years,  displays,  like  a feudal 
premonition,  the  two  great  destined  features  of  the  sixteenth 
century, — hatred  of  the  ecclesiastical  hierarchy,  which  is  the 
Reformation  ; and  the  realism  of  the  senses,  which  is  the  Re- 
naissance. His  rhyme, — 

‘Tattered  and  jagged, 

Rudely  rain-beaten, 

Rusty,  moth-eaten,’ 

full  of  English  and  popular  instincts,  is  a sort  of  literary  mud 
with  which  he  bespatters  those  who  retain  the  privileges  of  saints: 


‘Thus  I,  Colin  Clout, 

As  I go  about*, 

And  wondering  as  I walk, 

I hear  the  people  talk: 

Men  say  for  silver  and  gold 
Mitres  are  bought  and  sold: 

A straw  for  Goddys  curse, 

What  are  they  the  worse? 

What  care  the  clergy  though  Gill  sweat, 
Or  Jack  of  the  Noke? 

The  poor  people  they  yoke 
With  sumners  and  citacions, 

And  excommunications. 

About  churches  and  markets 
The  bishop  on  his  carpets 
At  home  soft  doth  sit. 

This  is  a fearful  fit. 

To  hear  the  people  jangle. 


Row  wearily  they  wrangle! 
Doctor  Daupatus 
And  Bachelor  Bacheleratus, 
Drunken  as  a mouse 
At  the  ale-house, 

Taketh  his  pillion  and  his  cap 
At  the  good  ale-tap 
For  lack  of  good  wine. 

As  wise  as  Robin  Swine, 
Under  a notary’s  sign, 

Was  made  a divine; 

As  wise  as  Waltham’s  calf. 
Must  preach  in  Goddys  half; 
In  the  pulpit  solemnly; 

More  meet  in  a pillory; 

For  by  St.  Hilary 
He  can  nothing  smatter 
Of  logic  nor  school  matter.’ 


298 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


With  almost  brutal  coarseness  alternate  gleams  of  the  sprightly 
fancy.  Called  upon  to  praise  the  ladies  of  the  court,  he  can  give 
a portrait  of  the  outside,  clear,  pretty,  and  full  of  detail.  He 


compares  one  to  — 

‘The  fragrant  camomile, 
The  ruddy  rosary, 

The  sovereign  rosemary 

And  adds: 

‘ Your  color 

Is  like  the  daisy  flower 
After  an  April  shower. 


The  pretty  strawberry, 
The  columbine,  the  nepte, 
The  gillyflower  well  set, 
The  proper  violet.’ 


Star  of  the  morrow  grey, 
The  blossom  of  the  spring, 
The  freshest  flower  of  May.’ 


By  his  hilarity  and  freedom  only,  does  Skelton  exhibit  the  new 
spirit.  Rooted  in  the  soil,  he  grovels  there,  with  no  aspiring 
instinct  towards  diviner  air. 

A brighter  light  in  this  rising  dawn  gives  clearer  promise  of 
refulgent  day.  For  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  it  was  reserved  to 
mark  a transformation  of  the  intellect,  — to  introduce  a new  and 
manly  style,  and  to  teach  the  English  muse  accents  she  had  never 
tried  before.  Says  Puttenham: 

‘In  the  latter  end  of  the  same  king  (Henry  the  eight)  reigne,  sprong  up  a new 
■company  of  courtly  makers,  of  whom  Sir  Thomas  Wyat  th’  elder  and  Henry  Earle 
of  Surrey  were  the  two  chieftaines,  who  having  travailed  into  Italie,  and  there  tasted 
the  sweete  and  stately  measures  and  stile  of  the  Italian  Poesie,  as  novices  newly 
crept  out  of  the  schooles  of  Dante,  Arioste,  and  Petrarch,  they  greatly  pollished 
our  rude  and  homely  maner  of  vulgar  Poesie,  from  that  it  had  bene  before,  and 
for  that  cause  may  justly  be  sayd  the  first  reformers  of  our  English  meetre  and 
stile.’ 


The  life  of  Surrey  was  a chivalric  romance.  An  earl,  a relative 
of  the  king,  a satellite  of  the  Court,  brilliant  in  arms,  magnificent, 
sumptuous,  ambitious,  four  times  imprisoned,  then  beheaded  at 
twenty-seven;  like  Dante  and  Petrarch,  a plaintive  and  platonic 
lover.  More  than  all,  his  mystical  love  for  the  fair  Geraldine, 
like  Dante’s  for  Beatrice  and  Petrarch’s  for  Laura,  invests  his 
memory  with  a peculiar  charm.  She  too  is  a child,  seen  only  to 
be  idealized;  one  of  nature’s  sweet  creatures  that,  like  chastened 
colors,  have  always  a holy  reference  beyond  themselves;  whose 
image,  entering  the  poet-soul,  is  straightway  enthroned  in  a 
region  sublime,  to  shine  as  a light,  a consolation,  a hope,  in  a 
dark  and  troubled  world.  With  the  polish  and  disposition  of  his 
Italian  model,  he  says  of  this  being  of  the  heart  and  mind: 


POETRY  — THE  SONNET. 


299 


‘I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I would, 

The  whole  effect  of  Nature’s  plaint, 

When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mould, 

The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint: 

With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did  cry, 

And  what  she  said,  I know  it,  I. 

I know  she  swore  with  raging  mind, 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart, 

There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 
That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart; 

And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain; 

She  could  not  make  the  like  again.’ 

The  sad  and  sombre  tint,  seldom  lacking  in  this  race,  is  here, 
even  in  youth.  Alone,  a prisoner  in  Windsor,  banishing  the  less 
by  remembrance  of  a greater  grief,  he  recalls  with  pathetic 
modulation,  the  joys  and  faces  of  the  vanished  days: 

‘With  each  sweet  place  returns  a taste  full  sour, 

The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to  hove,  [hover 

With  eyes  cast  up  into  the  maiden’s  tower, 

And  easy  sighs  such  as  folk  draw  in  love, 

The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue, 

The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight; 

With  words  and  looks,  that  tigers  could  but  rue; 

When  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other’s  right,  . . . 

The  secret  groves,  which  oft  me  made  resound 
Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies’  praise; 

Recording  oft  what  grace  each  one  had  found, 

What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long  delays,  . . . 

The  secret  thoughts  imparted  with  such  trust; 

The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play; 

The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just, 

Wherewith  we  passed  the  winter  night  away. 

And  with  this  thought  the  blood  forsakes  the  face; 

The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue: 

The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas! 

Upsupped  have,  thus  I my  plaint  renew: 

“O  place  of  bliss,  renewer  of  my  woes! 

Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere, 

Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  dost  each  night  enclose, 

To  other  lief,  but  unto  me  most  dear.” 

Echo,  alas!  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue 
Returns  thereat  a hollow  sound  of  plaint.’ 

Observe  the  new-born  art.  It  is  calculating  and  selective,  con- 
trasted and  ornamented,  eloquent  and  forceful;  critical,  exact, 
musical,  and  balanced;  uniting  symmetry  of  phrase  to  symme- 
try of  idea,  and  delight  of  the  ear  to  delight  of  the  mind. 

But  the  chief  point  in  which  the  pupil  imitates  his  master 
is  in  the  use  of  the  sonnet.  This  ‘diamond  of  literature,’  as 
practiced  by  Petrarch,  is  composed  of  fourteen  lines,  divided 


[companion 

[dear 


300 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


into  two  quatrains  and  two  tercets,  the  quatrains  repeating  one 
pair  of  rhymes  and  the  tercets  another.  Thus: 

‘The  wrinkled  sire  with  hair  like  winter  snow 

Leaves  the  beloved  spot  where  he  hath  passed  his  years, 

Leaves  wife  and  children,  dumb  with  bitter  tears, 

To  see  their  father’s  tottering  steps  and  slow, 

Dragging  his  aged  limbs  with  weary  woe, 

In  these  last  days  of  life  he  nothing  fears, 

But  with  stout  heart  his  fainting  spirit  cheers, 

And  spent  and  wayworn  forward  still  doth  goe; 

Then  comes  to  Rome,  following  his  heart's  desire, 

To  gaze  upon  the  portraiture  of  Him 
Whom  yet  he  hopes  in  heaven  above  to  see: 

Thus  I,  alas!  my  seeking  spirit  tire, 

Lady,  to  find  in  other  features  dim 

The  longed  for,  loved,  true  lineaments  of  thee.’ 

Surrey  does  not  adhere  to  the  strict  Italian  rule,  and  his  most 
famous  performance  consists  of  three  • regular  quatrains  con- 
cluded with  a couplet.  Thus: 

‘The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  blome  forth  brings, 

With  grene  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale-* 

The  nightingale  with  fethers  new  she  sings: 

The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale: 

Somer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs: 

The  hart  hath  hong  his  old  hed  on  the  pale; 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coate  he  flings: 

The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale: 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings; 

The  swift  swalow  pursueth  the  flies  smale; 

The  busy  bee  her  hony  now  she  mings: 

Winter  is  worne,  that  was  the  flowers  bale. 

And  thus  I se  among  these  pleasant  things 

Eche  care  decayes;  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs.’ 

Besides  the  sonnet,  Surrey  borrows  for  English  versification 
that  decasyllable  iambic  rhythm  — blank  verse  — in  which  our 
greatest  poetical  triumphs  have  been  achieved.  Almost  verse 
for  verse  he  translates  parts  of  the  iEneid  into  unrhymed 
pentameter.  Thus,  of  the  introduction  of  the  wooden  horse 
into  Troy: 

‘We  cleft  the  walles,  and  closures  of  the  towne, 

Wherto  all  helpe,  and  underset  the  feht 

With  sliding  rolles,  and  bound  his  neck  with  ropes. 

This  fatall  gin  thus  overclambe  our  walles, 

Stuft  with  armd  men:  about  the  which  there  ran 
Children  and  maides,  that  holly  carolles  sang.  . . . 

Fowr  times  it  stopt  in  thentrie  of  our  gate, 

Fowr  times  the  harnesse  clattered  in  the  womb.’ 

Surely  no  ignoble  effort  to  break  the  bondage  of  rhyme.  Let  it 
not  be  forgotten,  however: — 


[meet 


[suim 

[mingles 


POETRY  — CONTINUITY  OF  VERSE-FORM. 


301 


1.  That  English  verse  was  mainly  blank  for  the  first  five  hun- 
dred years  of  its  existence. 

2.  That  the  typic  scheme  of  our  old  ‘heroic  measure’  was 


-a-  rr  r 


(2) 


£,  in  which  (1)  alternated  with  (2)  in  lines  of  two 


or  four  bars. 

3.  That  the  modern  ‘heroic’  differs  from  the  ancient  in  hav- 
ing for  its  prevalent  bar  :jfc  £ |#,  with  five  bars  to  the  line. 

4.  That  Surrey  merely  disused  rhyme  in  a rhythm  which  was 
established  by  Chaucer  a hundred  and  fifty  years  gone  by;  as: 


0 

0 1 

A 

0 

0 1 

0 

A 

0 1 

0 

A 

0 ] 

0 

A . 

0 * 0 

! 

V 1 

I 

u 1 

1/ 

1 | 

1 | 

u 

1 H 

Whan 

that 

A- 

prill  - 

e 

with 

his 

shour  - 

es 

swoot-e 

0 

if 

J 1 

If 

| | 

if 

| 1 

if 

1 | 

if 

1 H 

The 

droghte 

of 

March 

hath 

perc  - 

ed 

to 

the 

root-e 

Farther  on,  thirty  years  distant,  beyond  this  budding  spring 
which  was  nipped  untimely,  is  the  phenomenal  Sidney,  whose 
writings  will  exhibit  the  luxuriance  and  the  irregularity  of  the 
prevailing  manners  and  the  public  taste.  Higher  up,  in  that 
empyrean  where  the  moral  and  sensuous  are  united,  is  the  pla- 
tonic Spenser,  at  once  a pagan  and  a Christian,  who  will  gather 
and  arrange,  with  inimitable  art,  the  loveliest  flowers  of  both 
civilizations.  About  this  exceptional  bloom  is  an  abundancer 
of  verse,  beyond  the  drama,  most  of  which  is  a dismal  travesty 
upon  the  name  of  poetry.  Undoubtedly,  these  poetasters,  badly 
as  they  wrote,  did  not  write  in  vain.  By  their  very  failures  they 
helped  to  develop  the  powers  of  the  language,  and  by  patient 
labor  on  its  sterile  spots  enriched  the  soil  for  such  as  should  be 
born  into  the  inheritance  of  ‘fresh  fields  and  pastures  new.’  It 
would  be  pleasant  to  be  grateful  to  them  for  their  poems, — ver- 
bose, generally  stale,  dull  to  the  verge  of  stupidity.  The  titles 
set  one  yawning;  as,  Five  hundred  Points  of  good  Husbandry / 
A Dialogue  contayning  in  effect  the  number  of  al  the  Proverbs 
in  the  English  tongue , compact  in  a matter  concerning  two 
marriages ; The  whole  Books  of  Psalmes  collected  into  English 
metre  by  T.  Sternhold , T.  Hopkins , and  others , conferred  with 
the  Ebrue , with  apt  Notes  to  sing  them  withall.  You  will  meet 
now  and  then,  we  dare  say,  with  a brilliant  picture,  or  a genuine 


302 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


love-cry,  or  a profound  truth,  as  in  the  two  noble  stanzas  of 
Sternhold: 

‘The  Lord  descended  from  above 
And  bowed  the  heavens  high. 

And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky; 

On  cherubs  and  on  cherubims 
Full  royally  he  rode, 

And  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds 
Came  flying  all  abrode.’ 

Or  the  elaborate  sonnet  of  the  amiable  Daniel  to  the  object  of 
his  baffled  affection: 

‘Restore  thy  tresses  to  the  golden  ore; 

Yield  Cytherea’s  son  those  arcs  of  love; 

Bequeath  the  heavens  the  stars  that  I adore; 

And  to  the  orient  do  thy  pearls  remove. 

Yield  thy  hand’s  pride  unto  the  ivory  white; 

To  Arabian  odors  give  thy  breathing  sweet; 

Restore  thy  blush  unto  Aurora  bright; 

To  Thetis  give  the  honor  of  thy  feet. 

Let  Venus  have  thy  graces,  her  resigned; 

And  thy  sweet  voice  give  back  unto  the  spheres; 

But  yet  restore  thy  fierce  and  cruel  mind 
To  Hyrcan  tigers  and  to  ruthless  bears; 

Yield  to  the  marble  thy  hard  heart  again; 

So  shalt  thou  cease  to  plague  and  I to  pain.’ 

The  grand  dictum  of  Stoicism: 

‘ He  that  of  such  a height  hath  set  his  mind. 

And  reared  the  dwelling  of  the  thoughts  so  strong, 

As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers:  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same; 

What  a fair  seat  hath  he  from  whence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  weals  of  man  survey!’ 

And  the  famous  sentiment: 

‘ Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself  how  poor  a thing  is  man ! ’ 

Or  Drayton’s  graceful  compliment  to  Isabella’s  hand: 

‘She  laid  her  fingers  on  his  manly  cheek, 

The  god’s  pure  sceptres  and  the  darts  of  love, 

That  with  their  touch  might  make  a tiger  meek, 

Or  might  great  Atlas  from  his  seat  remove, 

So  white,  so  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sleek 
As  she  had  worn  a lily  for  a glove.’ 

And  his  description  of  the  virgin  morning  of  the  infant  year, 
when  brooks  sing  carols  and  glees,  and  birds  in  silvery  warblings 
tell  their  panting  joy: 


POETRY  — RHETORICAL  AND  EMOTIVE. 


303 


4 When  Phoebus  lifts  his  head  out  of  the  water’s  wave, 

No  sooner  doth  the  earth  her  flowery  bosom  brave, 

At  such  time  as  the  year  brings  on  the  pleasant  spring, 

But  Hunt’s  up  to  the  mom  the  feathered  sylvans  sing; 

And,  in  the  lower  grove  as  on  the  rising  knowl, 

Upon  the  highest  spray  of  every  mounting  pole 

These  quiristers  are  perched,  with  many  a speckled  breast. 

Then  from  her  burnished  gate  the  goodly  glittering  East 
Gilds  every  mountain  top,  which  late  the  humorous  night 
Bespangled  had  with  pearl,  to  please  the  morning’s  sight; 

On  which  the  mirthful  quires,  with  their  clear  open  throats, 

Unto  the  joyful  morn  so  strain  their  warbling  notes 
That  hill  and  valleys  ring,  and  even  the  echoing  air 
Seems  all  composed  of  sounds  about  them  every  where.’ 

But  we  shall  no  longer  pause,  if  we  know  our  opulence,  and  have 
learned  to  distinguish  diamond  from  flint-sand,  or  gold  from  iron- 
glance;  for  be  it  clearly  and  constantly  remembered,  worthy  art, 
that  makes  of  all  men  a commonwealth,  that  is  always  new*  and 
incapable  of  growing  old,  must  have  that  intensity*  of  moral  feel- 
ing or  power  of  imagination  by  which  noble  emotions  are  excited, 
— Veneration,  Love,  Admiration,  Joy,  or  their  opposites — Hatred, 
Scorn,  Horror,  Grief.  There  were  simple  ballad-writers  who 
could  have  given  these  scholars  a lesson  in  rhetoric.  For  hear 
a lover  deceived  and  repentant  ‘of  the  true  love  which  he  bare 
her’: 

‘Where  I sought  heaven  there  found  I hap; 

From  danger  unto  death, 

Much  like  the  mouse  that  treads  the  trap 
In  hope  to  find  her  food, 

And  bites  the  bread  that  stops  her  breath,— 

So  in  like  case  I stood.’ 

And  another,  ‘accusing  his  love  for  her  unfaithfulness,’  and  pro- 
posing ‘to  live  in  liberty’: 

‘But  I am  like  the  beaten  fowl 
That  from  the  net  escaped, 

And  thou  art  like  the  ravening  owl 
That  all  the  night  hath  waked.’ 

Shall  we  make  an  old  lava  stream  white-hot  by  covering  it  with 
hoar-frost?  With  these  futile  efforts  to  kindle  one’s  self  with  a 
painted  flame,  compare  the  wild  vigor  and  fierce  sincerity  of  the 
Scotch  Twa  Corbies: 

‘As  I was  walking  all  alone 
I heard  twa  corbies  making  a moan. 

The  one  unto  the  other  did  say 
Where  shall  we  gang  dine  to-day? 

In  beyond  that  old  turf  dyke 
I wot  there  lies  a new-slain  knight; 


304 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 

But  his  hawk  and  his  hound  and  his  lady  fair. 

His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gone, 

His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild  fowl  home, 

His  lady  has  ta’n  another  mate, 

So  we  may  make  our  dinner  sweet. 

O'er  his  white  bones  as  they  lie  bare 
The  wind  shall  blow  forevermair.’ 

But  the  chief  excellence  of  poetry,  as  well  as  its  most  abun- 
dant and  popular  development,  was  dramatic.  The  most  original 
product  and  expression  of  the  English  Renaissance  is  the  drama. 
No  form  of  art  receives  and  preserves,  like  it,  the  exact  imprint 
of  the  age  and  of  the  nation.  None  expresses  so  much,  and  that 
so  deeply.  None  has  expanded,  in  all  its  details,  by  gradations 
more  insensible.  None  teaches  more  clearly  that  genius  can  not 
dispense  with  experience, — that  the  favored  generation,  and  the 
great  artists  in  it,  flourish  largely  on  a soil  fertilized  by  the  tenta- 
tive efforts  of  generations  which  precede.  Here,  as  in  Greece 
and  elsewhere,  the  drama  began  in  religion.  At  a time  when 
sermons  were  not  intelligible  if  preached,  and  when  none  but 
the  clererv  could  read  the  stories  of  the  Christian  faith,  it  wTas 
introduced  by  the  Church,  to  instruct  the  illiterate  in  saintly  or 
Scriptural  history  — the  only  history  then  known  — and  to  extend 
her  influence  by  engrossing  the  sources  of  popular  recreation. 
Priests  wTere  the  writers  or  inventors,  and  frequently  the  actors, 
of  the  plays,  usually  written  in  mixed  prose  and  verse.  As  mys- 
terious subjects  were  chosen — the  lives  and  marvels  of  the  saints, 
the  Incarnation,  Crucifixion,  Resurrection,  Creation,  Fall,  or  Con- 
quests of  Hell — these  performances  acquired  the  general  name  of 
Mysteries.  The  ‘theatre’  was  the  cathedral,  a scaffold  in  the 
open  air,  or  a movable  stage  on  wheels,  drawn  from  street  to 
street,  or  from  town  to  town.  As  the  cart  stopped  at  given 
points,  the  actors  threw  open  the  doors,  and  proceeded  to  per- 
form the  scenes  allotted  them.  A graduated  platform  in  three 
divisions,  represented  Heaven,  Earth,  and  Hell.  Above,  the 
Deity  and  His  angels,  passive  wThen  not  actually  mingling  in  the 
action;  in  the  centre  moved  the  human  w'orld,  the  actors  stand- 
ing motionless  at  one  side  when  they  had  nothing  to  say  or  do; 
and  the  yawning  throat  of  an  immeasurable  dragon,  emitting 
smoke  and  flames  when  required,  showed  the  entrance  to  the 
bottomless  pit,  into  which,  through  the  expanded  jaws,  the 


POETRY  — EARLY  DRAMA  — EARLY  THEATRE. 


305 


damned  were  dragged  with  shrieks  of  agony  by  demons.  Trap- 
doors and  like  mechanical  contrivances  were  not  unknown. 
Closed  structures  were  palaces,  cottages,  temples,  according  to 
the  necessities  of  the  piece,  their  destination  being  occasionally 
shown  by  written  placards.  A superb  paradise  was  the  glory 
of  the  manager.  Silk  hangings,  flowers,  and  fruit-bearing  trees 
adorned  this  favored  spot.  The  costumes  were  as  rich  and  im- 
posing as  the  vestry  or  the  purse  could  compass.  Horned  devils 
in  skins  of  beasts,  with  tails  and  cloven  hoofs,  formed  an  excep- 
tion to  the  usual  inaccuracy  of  theatrical  attire.  These  were 
the  buffoons;  and  the  poor  yokels  who  shed  tears  at  the  torturous 
crucifixion,  or  were  appalled  at  the  flaming  wings  of  the  infernal 
monster,  would  listen  with  shouts  of  laughter  to  the  reciprocal 
abuse  voided  by  Satan  and  his  minions,  whose  very  names  in 
solitude  would  have  paralyzed  them.  The  customary  encomium 
was,  ‘To-day  the  mystery  was  very  fine  and  devout,  and  the 
devils  played  most  pleasantly.’  The  people  were  in  the  child- 
hood of  society,  satisfied  that  they  were  good  Christians,  and  so 
were  innocently  insensible  to  the  blasphemy  or  indecency  of 
their  exhibitions.  It  accorded  with  the  debased  ideas  of  the 
times  to  make  such  entries  as:  ‘paid  for  a pair  of  gloves  for 
God;’  ‘paid  for  gilding  God’s  coat;’  ‘dyvers  necessaries  for 
the  trimmynge  of  the  Father  of  Heaven;’  ‘payed  to  the  players 
for  rehearsal  — to  God,  iis.  viiic?. ; to  Pilate  his  wife,  iis. ; for 
keeping  fyer  at  hell’s  mouth,  iiic?.’  The  coarse  humor  which 
kept  the  audience  awake,  was  not  without  a certain  power  of 
characterization.  Thus  Noah  and  his  wife,  in  the  Deluge , are 
close  copies  of  contemporary  life.  Mrs.  Noah,  a shrew  and  a 
vixen,  refuses  to  leave  her  gossips,  swears  she  will  not  go  into 
the  Ark  ; scolds  Noah,  and  is  flogged  ; then  wishes  herself  a 
widow,  hopes  all  wives  the  same  good  luck,  and  thinks  she  but 
echoes  their  feelings  in  doing  so;  while  Noah  takes  occasion  to 
inform  all  husbands  that  their  proper  course  is  to  break  their 
wives  after  his  fashion — with  a stick  not  thicker  than  the  thumb. 
At  this  point,  the  water  is  nearly  up  to  her  neck,  and  she  is 
partly  coaxed,  partly  forced,  into  the  Ark  by  one  of  her  sons. 

A change  of  intellectual  condition  is  marked  by  the  deca- 
dence of  the  Mysteries  after  the  fourteenth  century.  In  the 
fifteenth,  a new  class  of  dramatic  performances  arose,  in  which 
20 


306 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


the  personages  were  not  concrete  beings,  but  their  shadowy 
reflections,  the  virtues  and  vices, — Pride,  Gluttony,  Temperance, 
Faith,  and  the  like.  To  relieve  their  gravity,  under  which  the 
audience  were  liable  to  yawn  and  sleep,  the  Devil  was  retained, 
and  a more  natural  buffoon  was  introduced  in  the  Vice,  who 
acted  the  part  of  broad,  rampant  jester.  These  two  were  the 
darlings  of  the  multitude.  Full  of  pranks  and  swaggering  fun, 
a part  of  Vice’s  ordinary  business  was  to  treat  the  Devil  with 
ribald  familiarity,  to  crack  saucy  jokes  upon  him,  to  bestride 
him  and  beat  him  till  he  roared,  and  in  the  end  to  be  carried 
off  to  Hell  on  his  back.  Characteristic  examples  are  The  Castle 
of  Perseverance  and  Every  Man.  The  latter  is  opened  in  a 
monologue  by  the  Messenger,  who  announces  the  subject.  Then 
God  appears,  who,  after  some  general  complaints  on  the  moral 
depravity  of  the  human  race,  calls  for  Death,  and  orders  him 
to  bring  before  His  tribunal  Every-Man.  Neither  Fellowship 
nor  Kindred  nor  Goods  nor  Riches  will  or  can  avail.  Succes- 
sively implored,  they  successively  forsake  the  suppliant.  Utterly 
disconsolate,  Every-Man  seeks  Good-Deeds,  and  she,  after  up- 
braiding him  with  his  long  neglect  of  her,  conducts  him  to  her 
sister  Knowledge,  who  in  turn  leads  him  to  the  ‘ holy  man  Con- 
fession.’ Confession  appoints  him  penance,  which  he  inflicts 
upon  himself,  and  then  withdraws  from  the  stage  to  receive  the 
sacraments  of  the  priest.  On  his  return  he  waxes  faint;  and, 
as  Strength,  Beauty,  Discretion  and  Five -Wits  desert  him,  he 
expires,  abandoned  by  all  but  Good-Deeds,  wTho  attends  him  to 
the  last.  An  angel  then  descends  to  sing  his  requiem;  and  the 
epilogue  is  spoken  by  a Doctor,  who,  after  recapitulation,  deliv- 
ers the  moral: 

‘This  memoriall  men  may  have  in  mynde, 

Ye  herers,  take,  if  of  worth  old  and  yonge, 

And  forsake  Pryde,  for  he  deceyveth  yon  in  thende, 

And  remembre  Beaute,  Five  Witts,  Strength  and  Discretion, 

They  all  at  last  do  Every  Man  forsake; 

Save  his  Good  Deeds  there  dothe  he  take; 

But  beware,  for  and  they  be  small, 

Before  God  he  hath  no  help  at  all.’ 

This  drama  came  from  the  Romanists  to  recall  the  auditors  back 
to  the  shaken  creed  of  their  fathers.  As  the  earlier  plays  were 
professedly  religious  or  theological,  so  the  later  were  semi-relig- 
ious or  ethical,  and  hence  were  styled  Moralities. 


POETRY  — HISTORICAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  DRAMA.  307 


A further  secularization  of  the  drama  occurred  when,  taking* 
a more  adventurous  course,  it  accommodated  itself  to  the  fash- 
ions and  factions  of  the  day,  not  yet  venturing  into  a wide  field, 
but  peeping,  as  it  were,  from  a corner.  It  was  nothing  more 
than  a farce  in  a single  act,  satirical  and  comic,  sustained  in 
dialogue  by  three  or  four  professional  characters  of  the  times, 
and  acted  in  the  intervals  of  a banquet.  From  this  last  circum- 
stance, it  was  called  the  Interlude.  Thus  Douglas,  the  Scotch 
bard: 

‘Grete  was  the  preis  the  feast  royal  to  sene; 

At  ease  they  eat,  with  interludes  between.’ 

Heywood,  jester  of  Henry  VIII,  was  their  most  noted  author. 
His  Four  P's  is  a curious  illustration  of  the  wit,  manners,  and 
opinions  of  the  period.  It  turns  upon  a dispute  between  a 
Palmer,  a Pardoner,  a Poticary,  and  a Pedlar,  as  to  who  can 
practice  the  greatest  frauds  on  credulity  and  ignorance.  The 
contest  ends  in  a wager  who  shall  tell  the  greatest  lie,  when  the 
Palmer  says  he  never  saw  a woman  out  of  temper.  Thereupon 
the  others  declare  him  ‘a  liar  of  the  first  magnitude.’  Hey- 
wood’s  zeal  for  the  Roman  Catholic  cause  does  not  seem  to  have 
prevented  him  from  lashing  with  the  utmost  freedom  and  sever- 
ity the  abuses  of  popery.  The  Pardoner  says: 

‘I  say  yet  again,  my  pardons  are  such, 

That  if  there  were  a thousand  souls  on  a heap, 

I would  bring  them  all  to  heaven  as  good  sheep,  . . . 

With  small  cost  without  any  pain, 

These  pardons  bring  them  to  heaven  plain: 

Give  me  but  a penny  or  two-pence, 

And  as  soon  as  the  soul  departeth  hence, 

In  half  an  hour,  or  three  quarters  at  the  most, 

The  soul  is  in  heaven  with  the  Holy  Ghost.’ 

Like  a regular  graduate  in  the  game  of  imposture,  he  recounts 
the  virtues  of  his  relics,  to  which  he  and  the  rest  hood-wink  their 
understandings : 

‘Lo,  here  be  pardons,  half  a dozen, 

For  ghostly  riches  they  have  no  cousin. 

And  moreover,  to  me  they  bring 
Sufficient  succour  for  my  living.  . . . 

Friends,  here  shall  ye  see,  even  anon, 

Of  All-Hallows,  the  blessed  jaw-bone. 

Mark  well  this,  this  relic  here  is  a whipper; 

My  friends  unfeigned,  here’s  a slipper 
Of  one  of  the  seven  sleepers,  be  sure. 

Here  is  an  eye-tooth  of  the  great  Turk; 

Whose  eyes  be  once  set  on  this  piece  of  work, 


308 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


May  happily  lose  part  of  his  eye-sight, 

But  not  all  till  he  be  blind  outright. 

Kiss  it  hardly,  with  good  devotion. 

Pot.  This  kiss  shall  bring  us  much  promotion: 

Fogh ! by  St.  Saviour,  I never  kissed  a worse.  . . . 

For,  by  All- Hallows,  yet  methinketh 
That  All-Hallows''  breath  stinketh. 

Palm.  Ye  judge  All-Hallows’  breath  unknown; 

If  any  breath  stink,  it  is  your  own. 

Pot.  I know  my  own  breath  from  All-Hallows, 

Or  else  it  were  time  to  kiss  the  gallows. 

Pard.  Nay,  sirs  here  may  ye  see 

The  great  toe  of  the  Trinity: 

Who  to  this  toe  any  money  voweth, 

And  once  may  roll  it  in  his  mouth, 

All  his  life  after  I undertake 

He  shall  never  be  vex’d  with  the  tooth-ache. 

Pot.  I pray  you  turn  that  relic  about; 

Either  the  Trinity  had  the  gout, 

Or  else,  because  it  is  three  toes  in  one, 

God  made  it  as  much  as  three  toes  alone.  . . . 

Pard.  Good  friends,  I have  yet  here  in  this  glass, 

Which  on  the  drink  at  the  wedding  was 
Of  Adam  and  Eve  undoubtedly: 

If  ye  honour  this  relic  devoutly, 

Although  ye  thirst  no  whit  the  less, 

Yet  shall  ye  drink  the  more,  doubtless. 

After  which  drinking,  ye  shall  be  as  meet 
To  stand  on  your  head  as  on  your  feet.’ 

The  stage  was  becoming  a living  power.  Mary  hastened  a proc- 
lamation against  the  interludes  of  the  reformers,  while  Elizabeth, 
on  her  accession,  as  suddenly  suppressed  those  of  the  papists. 

Such  were  the  steps  by  which  the  national  genius  was  con- 
ducted to  the  verge  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  As  the  Morality 
had  superseded  the  Mystery,  and  the  Interlude  that,  the  older 
retaining  its  hold  till  the  younger  gained  strength  to  assert  its 
rights;  so  now,  in  the  march  of  intellect,  they  were  all  to  give 
way  before  the  drama  proper,  which  portrays  the  character  and 
actions  of  man,  to  the  exclusion  or  subordination  of  the  super- 
natural. The  first  play  which  bears  the  distinctive  marks  of  a 
legitimate  Comedy , is  commonly  considered  to  be  JR,alpli  Roister 
Roister , by  Nicholas  Udall  (1551).  The  plot,  without  involu- 
tion, progresses  through  five  acts  in  rhyme  more  racy  than  ele- 
gant. Ralph  is  a vain,  blustering,  amorous  hair-brain  : 

‘So  fervent  hot  wooing,  and  so  far  from  wiving, 

I trow,  never  was  any  creature  living.’ 

His  baffled  pursuit  of  a gay  and  rich  widow  forms  the  action  of 
the  piece.  A group  of  domestics,  that  might  have  formed  a 


POETRY  — FIRST  COMEDY  — FIRST  TRAGEDY. 


309 


study  for  Shakespeare  in  his  happiest  vein,  opens  up  the  domes- 
tic scenery  of  the  metropolis,  warm  with  reality.  Its  scholastic 
authorship,  as  well  as  its  merry-making,  is  shown  in  a proposal  of 
marriage  sent  by  the  conceited  fop  to  the  widow,  which  is  read 
to  her  with  its  sense  reversed  by  changing  the  true  punctuation: 

‘Now  by  these  presents  I do  you  advertise 
That  I am  minded  to  marry  you  in  no  wise. 

For  your  goods  and  substance  I could  be  content 
To  take  you  as  ye  are.  If  ye  mind  to  be  my  wife, 

Ye  shall  be  assured  for  the  time  of  my  life 
I will  keep  ye  right  well  from  good  raiment  and  fare; 

Ye  shall  not  be  kept  but  in  sorrow  and  care. 

Ye  shall  in  no  wise  live  at  your  own  liberty; 

But  when  ye  are  merry,  I will  be  all  sad; 

When  ye  seek  your  heart’s  ease  I will  be  unkind; 

At  no  time  in  me  shall  ye  much  gentleness  find.’ 

The  tragic  muse  was  not  far  behind.  The  first  English  heroic 
tale  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  and  clothed  in  the  formalities 
of  a regular  Tragedy , was  Gorboduc , by  Thomas  Sackville 
tl562).  Gorboduc,  king  of  Britain  about  five  hundred  years  before 
Christ,  divides  his  kingdom  between  his  two  sons,  Ferrex  and 
Porrex.  A quarrel  between  the  princes  results  in  civil  war,  and 
Ferrex  is  slain  by  his  brother.  The  mother  revenges  his  death 
by  murdering  Porrex  in  his  sleep.  The  people,  exasperated  at 
the  unnatural  deed,  rise  in  rebellion,  and  kill  both  her  and  the 
king.  The  nobility  collect  an  army  and  destroy  the  rebels,  but 
immediately  fall  to  destroying  one  another.  The  lineal  succes- 
sion to  the  Crown  is  lost;  and  the  country,  without  a head,  is 
wasted  by  slaughter  and  famine.  Like  Roister  Roister , Gor- 
boduc is  cast  in  the  mould  of  classical  antiquity;  but  instead  of 
individual  nature  and  real  passion,  it  deals  only  in  vague  and 
labored  declamations  which  never  entered  any  head  but  the 
author’s.  Nothing  is  intricate,  nothing  unravelled,  and  little 
pathetic.  It  has  the  form  of  dialogue  without  the  spirit.  Sin- 
gularly frigid  and  unimaginative,  it  is  not  without  justness, 
weight,  and  fertility  of  thought.  Its  diction  is  transparent.  It 
is  celebrated,  moreover,  as  being  our  first  tragedy  in  blank  verse. 
But  the  measure,  though  the  embryon  of  Shakespeare’s,  conveys 
no  notion  of  that  elasticity  and  variety  which  it  was  destined 
shortly  to  attain.  The  following  are  the  most  animated  lines  in 
the  whole  play: 


310 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


‘O  mother,  thou  to  murder  thus  thy  child! 

Even  Jove  with  justice  must  with  lightning  flames 
From  heaven  sAid  down  some  strange  revenge  on  thee. 

Ah,  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I beheld 
Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  steed, 

Shining  in  armor  bright  before  the  tilt, 

And  with  thy  mistress’  sleeve  tied  on  thy  helm, 

And  charge  thy  staff  — to  please  thy  lady’s  eye — 

That  bowed  the  headpiece  of  thy  friendly  foe ! ’ 

In  these  exact  lines,  stealing  on  with  care  but  with  fear,  we  fail 
to  discover  the  potent  spirit  who  planned  the  Mirror  for  Magis- 
trates / and,  resigning  that  noble  scheme  to  inferior  hands,  left  as 
its  model  the  Induction.  Tragical,  like  Gorboduc , in  idea  and 
plot,  it  has  the  vigor  of  creative  imagination.  It  is  the  congenial 
offspring  of  a gloomy  genius  in  a night  of  storm,  which  may  be 
thought  to  receive  a ghastly  complexion  from  the  lurid  flames 
that  wrap  the  victims  of  persecution.  Amid  the  shadows  of  the 
darkening  day,  across  the  faded  fields  swept  by  the  wintry  wind, 
the  poet,  as  he  pursues  his  lonely  way,  marks  the  gray  grass,  the 
blasted  flowers,  the  bare  boughs,  the  wan  clouds,  and  sees  in 
them  the  type  of  the  state  of  man;  but  suddenly  as  he  redoubles 
his  pace, — 

‘In  black  all  clad  there  fell  before  my  face 
A piteous  wight.  . . . 

Her  body  small,  forwithered  and  forspent, 

As  is  the  stalk  with  summer’s  drouth  opprest; 

Her  wealked  face  with  woful  tears  besprent, 

Her  colour  pale,  and  as  it  seemd  her  best, 

In  woe  and  plaint  reposed  was  her  rest; 

And,  as  the  stone  that  drops  of  water  wears. 

So  dented  were  her  cheeks  with  fall  of  tears.’ 

Sorrow  guides  him  into  the  region  of  death,  there  to  hear  from 
the  dead  the  stories  of  their  woes.  Here,  among  other  dreadful 
and  hideous  shapes,  is  Old  Age: 

‘Crooked-backed  he  was,  tooth-shaken,  and  blear-eyed, 

Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometime  crept  on  four; 

With  old  lame  bones , that  rattled  by  his  side  ; 

His  scalp  all  piled,  and  he  with  eld  forelore;  [ bald 

His  withered  fist  still  knocking  at  death's  door ; 

Fumbling  and  drivelling  as  he  draws  his  breath ; 

For  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death.’ 

It  is  the  recurrence  of  the  deep  poetic  instinct,  the  feeling  of 
misery  and  mortality,  the  sad  sense  of  limitless  darkness,  the 
sombre  conception  of  the  world,  which  this  race  has  manifested 
from  its  origin,  which  it  will  preserve  to  its  end. 

1 A series  of  poetic  narratives  of  the  disasters  of  men  eminent  in  English  story. 


POETRY — THE  HEW  DRAMA  AND  THEATRE. 


311 


Thenceforward  the  drama  makes  rapid  progress,  passing  from 
youth  to  a splendid  maturity  with  enormous  strides,  and  extend- 
ing in  a single  generation  over  all  the  provinces  of  history,  imagi- 
nation, and  fancy,  with  that  breadth  of  anticipation  and  intoxica- 
tion of  heart  which  the  ardent  soul  may  experience,  when  from 
being  a child  it  has  become  a man  and  feels  a new-glowing  joy 
shoot  through  nerve  and  vein.  Expanding  with  the  growing 
taste,  it  quits  the  Palace,  the  Inns,  the  Universities,  where  it  is 
compressed,  and  creates  in  157G  a public  theatre  and  a national 
audience.  Before  the  end  of  the  century,  eleven  theatres  and 
nearly  two  hundred  dramas  attest  the  absorbing  passion.  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  are  ransacked  ‘to  furnish  the  play- 
house of  London.’  Listen  to  the  groans  of  the  Puritan: 

‘The  daily  abuse  of  stage  plays  is  such  an  offense  to  the  godly,  and  so  great  a hin- 
drance  to  the  Gospel,  as  the  Papists  do  exceedingly  rejoice  at  the  blemish  thereof,  and 
not  without  cause;  for  every  day  in  the  week  the  player’s  bills  are  set  up  in  sundry 
places  of  the  city ; so  that,  when  the  bells  toll  to  the  lecturer,  the  trumpets  sound  to 
the  stages.  Whereat  the  wicked  faction  of  Rome  laughetli  for  joy,  while  the  godly  weep 
for  sorrow.  ...  It  is  a woful  sight  to  see  two  hundred  proud  players  jet  in  their  silks, 
while  five  hundred  poor  people  starve  in  the  streets.  . . . Woe  is  me ! the  play-houses  are 
pestered  when  the  churches  are  naked.  At  the  one,  it  is  not  possible  to  get  a place;  at 
the  other,  void  seats  are  plenty.’ 

Some  of  the  theatres  are  used  as  cock-pits,  some  for  bull-baiting 
and  bear-baiting,  all  are  poor  and  squalid.  On  the  banks  of  the 
Thames  rises  the  principal  one,  the  Globe,  a hexagonal  tower, 
surrounded  by  a muddy  ditch,  surmounted  by  a red  flag,  and 
roofed  by  the  sky,  retaining  in  its  form  and  arrangements  traces 
of  the  old  model  — the  inn-yard.  Into  the  pit,  the  sun  shines 
and  the  rain  falls  without  let  or  hindrance;  but  their  bodies  are 
inured  to  exposure,  and  they  don’t  trouble  themselves  about  it. 
The  poor  are  there,  as  well  as  the  rich;  for  they  have  sixpenny, 
twopenny,  and  even  penny  seats.  With  the  actors,  on  the  rush- 
strewn  stage,  which  is  covered  with  thatch,  are  the  elegant  and 
the  dainty,  who  pay  a shilling  for  admittance.  For  an  extra 
shilling,  they  can  have  a stool.  If  stools  or  benches  are  lacking, 
they  stretch  themselves  on  the  floor.  They  smoke,  drink,  swear, 
insult  the  pit,  who  pay  them  back  in  kind,  and  fling  apples  at 
them  in  the  bargain.  Over  them,  in  a lofty  gallery  are  the  musi- 
cians. Below,  in  the  circle  of  the  pit,  while  they  wait  for  the 
piece,  cards  are  shuffled,  oaths  resound,  ale-pots  clatter,  blows 
are  exchanged.  When  the  beer  takes  effect,  there  is  a receptacle 


312 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


for  general  use.  W hen  the  fumes  rise,  they  cry,  ( Burn  the  juni- 
per ! ’ They  are  amusing  themselves  after  their  fashion.  At  one 
o’clock  — Sundays  included  — the  flag  is  hoisted,  to  announce  the 
hour  of  the  performance.  When  the  trumpet  sounds,  a figure  in 
a long  black  velvet  cloak  comes  forward  to  recite  the  prologue. 
Then  the  play  begins,  the  players  in  masks  and  wigs,  and  attired 
in  the  richest  dress  of  the  day.  If  the  house  are  not  suited,  they 
hiss,  whistle,  crow,  yell,  perhaps  fall  upon  the  actors  and  turn 
the  theatre  upside  down.  The  appointments  are  barbarous,  but 
imaginations  are  fervid  and  supply  what  is  wanting.  Wooden 
imitations  of  animals,  towers,  forests,  etc.,  are  the  scenery.  A 
bed  suggests  a bed-room.  A rough  table,  with  drinking  vessels, 
replaces  a dingy  throne  and  turns  a palace  into  a tavern.  A 
young  man,  just  shaven,  stands  for  a queen.  A scroll  in  big 
letters,  hung  out  in  view  of  the  spectators,  informs  them  that 
they  are  in  London,  Athens,  or  Paris.  Three  combatants  on  a 
side  determine  the  fate  of  an  empire.  Says  Sir  Philip  Sidney: 

‘You  shall  have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Africke  of  the  other,  and  so  many  other 
under-kingdoms,  that  the  Plaier  when  hee  comes  in  must  ever  begin  with  telling  where 
hee  is,  or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  conceived.  Now  shall  you  have  three  Ladies  walke 
to  gather  flowers,  and  then  wee  must  beleeve  the  stage  to  be  a garden.  By  and  by  wee 
heare  newes  of  shipwracke  in  the  same  place,  then  wee  are  to  blame  if  we  accept  it  not 
for  a rocke ; . . . while  in  the  meane  time  two  armies  flie  in,  represented  with  foure 
swordes  and  bucklers,  and  then  what  hard  heart  will  not  receive  it  for  a pitched  field?  ’ 

The  actors  — at  first  strolling  companies  under  the  patronage  of 
some  nobleman,  as  security  against  the  laws  which  brand  all 
strollers  as  vagabonds  and  rogues  — are  neglected  or  despised 
by  those  whom  they  entertain.  Their  social  position  is  not  far 
above  that  of  the  jester  who  shakes  his  cap  and  bells  at  the 
tables  of  the  great.  Nearly  all  are  writers.  Most  are  born  of 
the  people,  yet  educated.  The  majority  are  accomplished  in  the 
classics.  The  manager  gives  them  work,  advances  them  money, 
and  receives  their  manuscripts  or  their  wardrobes.  For  a play 
he  allows  them  seven  or  eight  pounds.  Their  trade  of  author 
scarcely  brings  bread.  Rarely,  like  Shakespeare,  they  contrive, 
by  a judicious  investment  of  early  gains  to  acquire  a third  and 
more  fruitful  source  of  income, — a theatre-share.  Generally, 
they  are  wild  Bohemians,  improvident,  poor,  full  of  excess,  and 
die  untimely  by  exhaustion  or  violence. 

Such  are  the  externals.  We  have  seen  what  the  interior  must 


POETRY  — MARLOWE. 


313 


be;  for  the  drama  is  but  the  moral,  social,  and  physical  expres- 
sion of  the  age  in  which  it  lives;  and. the  poets  who  establish  it 
carry  in  themselves  the  intensified  sentiments  and  passions  of 
those  around  them.  They  will  reproduce  the  entire  man, — his 
finest  aspirations  and  his  savagest  appetites,  the  low  and  the 
lofty,  the  ideal  and  the  sensual.  So  does  Marlowe,  the  true 
founder  of  the  dramatic  school,  the  mightiest  of  Shakespeare’s 
pioneers.  Born  in  1564,  son  of  a shoemaker,  he  was  the  proudest 
and  fiercest  of  aristocrats.  At  seventeen  he  was  in  Cambridge. 
Studied  theology,  and  became  a sceptic.  Returning  to  London, 
he  turned  actor,  broke  his  leg  in  a scene  of  debauchery,  and 
turned  author.  Rebellious  in  manners,  he  was  rebellious  in 
creed;  declared  Moses  a juggler;  was  accused  of  saying  that  ‘yf 
he  wer  to  write  a new  religion,  he  wolde  undertake  both  a more 
excellent  and  a more  admirable  methode’;  was  prosecuted  for 
avowed  infidelity,  and,  if  time  had  not  failed,  would  probably 
have  been  brought  to  the  stake.  In  love  with  a harlot,  he  tried 
to  stab  his  rival;  his  hand  was  turned,  and  the  blade  entered  his 
own  eye  and  brain,  and  he  died,  at  thirty,  cursing  and  blasphem- 
ing. A Puritan  ballad,  in  which  he  is  called  I Vormall,  draws  the 
moral : 

‘Take  warning,  ye  that  plays  do  make, 

And  ye  that  them  do  act. 

Desist  in  time,  for  Wormall's  sake. 

And  think  upon  his  fact.’ 

His  first  play,  Tamburlaine  the  Great , is  characteristic, — a pic- 
ture of  boundless  ambition  and  murderous  raire.  The  hero  is  a 
shepherd,  who  aspires  to  the  throne  of  Persia,  scornful  of  re- 
straint, and  ready  to  put  men  to  the  sword  or  to  rail  at  the  gods. 
He  says,  giant-like: 

‘For  in  a field,  whose  superficies 
Is  cover’d  with  a liquid  purple  veil, 

And  sprinkled  with  the  brains  of  slaughtered  men 
My  royal  chair  of  state  shall  be  advanc’d; 

And  he  that  means  to  place  himself  therein, 

Must  armed  wade  up  to  the  chin  in  blood,  . . . 

And  I would  strive  to  swim  through  pools  of  blood, 

Or  makk  a bridge  of  murder’d  carcasses, 

Whose  arches  should  be  fram’d  with  bones  of  Turks, 

Ere  I would  lose  the  title  of  a king.’ 

Seated  in  a chariot,  drawn  by  captive  kings,  he  berates  them  for 
their  slowness: 


314 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


‘Hallo!  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia! 

What,  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a day? 

And  adds,  with  purest  splendor,  as  with  swaggering  fustian: 

‘ The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven , 

And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils , 

Making  their  fiery  gait  above  the  clouds , 

Are  not  so  honored  in  their  governor 
As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine.’ 

All  the  ferocities  of  the  middle-age  are  in  the  Jew  of  Malta . If 
there  is  less  bombast  than  in  Tamburlaine , there  is  even  more 
horror.  Barabbas,  the  Jew,  robbed  by  the  Christians,  has  been 
maddened  with  hate  till  he  is  no  longer  human.  He  says  to  his 
servant: 

‘Hast  thou  no  trade?  then  listen  to  my  words, 

And  I will  teach  thee  that  shall  stick  by  thee: 

First,  be  thou  void  of  these  affections, 

Compassion,  love,  vain  hope,  and  heartless  fear; 

Be  moved  at  nothing,  see  thou  pity  none, 

But  to  thyself  smile  when  the  Christians  moan.  . . . 

I walk  abroad  a-nights, 

And  kill  sick  people  groaning  under  walls: 

Sometimes  I go  about  and  poison  wells.  . . . 

Being  young,  I studied  physic,  and  began 
To  practice  first  upon  the  Italian; 

There  I enriched  the  priests  with  burials, 

And  always  kept  the  sexton’s  arms  in  ure 

With  digging  graves  and  ringing  dead  men’s  knells.  . . . 

I fill'd  the  jails  with  bankrouts  in  a year, 

And  with  young  orphans  planted  hospitals.’ 

By  forged  letters  he  causes  his  daughter’s  lovers  to  slay  each 
other.  She  leaves  him,  and  he  poisons  her.  A friar  comes  to 
convert  him,  and  he  strangles  him,  joking  with  his  cut-throat 
slave,  who  rejoices  in  the  neatness  of  the  job: 

‘Pull  amain, 

’Tis  neatly  done  sir;  here’s  no  print  at  all: 

So,  let  him  lean  upon  his  staff;  excellent! 

He  stands  as  if  he  were  begging  of  bacon.’ 

A true  painting,  conceived  with  an  intensity  and  executed  with 
a sweep  of  imagination  unknown  before.  So  in  Edward  If  all 
is  impetuous,  excessive,  and  abrupt.  Furies  and  hatreds  clash; 
helplessness  and  misery  wait  for  their  hour  alike  in  the  fortalices 
of  strength  and  the  high  places  of  pleasure.  He  who  has  seen 
and  felt  with  volcanic  energy  the  heights  and  depths  of  imagina- 
tion and  license  can  paint,  more  powerfully  than  Shakespeare  in 
Eichard  If  the  heart-breaking  distress  of  a dying  king: 


POETRY  — MARLOWE. 


315 


■Edward.  Wcep’st  thou  already?  List  awhile  to  me, 

And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Gurney’s  is, 

Or  as  Matrevis,  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 

Yet  will  it  melt  ere  I have  done  my  tale. 

This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me,  is  the  sink 
Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 

Lightborn.  Oh  villains! 

Edward.  And  here  in  mire  and  puddle  have  I stood 

This  ten  days’  space;  and  lest  that  I should  sleep, 

One  plays  continually  upon  a drum. 

They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a king; 

So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 

My  mind's  distemper’d,  and  my  body’s  numb’d ; 

And  whether  I have  limbs  or  no,  I know  not. 

Oh!  would  my  blood  drop  out  from  every  vein, 

As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter’d  robes! 

Tell  Isabel,  the  Queen,  I look’d  not  thus, 

When  for  her  sake  I ran  at  tilt  in  France, 

And  there  unhors'd  the  Duke  of  Cleremont. 

What  are  we  but  sports  of  every  pressure  of  the  air  ? What  is 
life  but  a crushing  fatality  ? A wreck  upon  the  shore  of  time. 
At  most,  a brief  day  of  joy  or  victory,  then  the  silence  and  gloom 
of  the  Illimitable.  Mortimer,  brought  to  the  block,  says,  with 
the  mournful  heroism  of  the  old  sea  kings: 

‘Base  Fortune,  now  I see,  that  in  thy  wheel 
There  is  a point,  to  which  when  men  aspire. 

They  tumble  headlong  down ; that  point  I touched. 

And,  seeing  there  was  no  place  to  mount  up  higher. 

Why  should  I grieve  at  my  declining  fall?  — 

Farewell,  fair  queen;  weep  not  for  Mortimer, 

That  scorns  the  world,  and,  as  a traveller. 

Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown.’ 

So  in  Faustas,  which  best  reflects  the  genius  and  experience 
of  Marlowe,  the  overshadowing  thought  is  — 

‘Ay,  we  must  die  an  everlasting  death  . . . 

What  will  be,  shall  be;  divinity,  adieu!’ 

Therefore  enjoy,  at  any  cost,  though  you  be  swallowed  up  on 
the  morrow;  nor  say  to  the  passing  moment,  ‘Stay,  thou  art  so 
fair,’  but  seek  forever  the  intoxicating  whirl.  Faustus,  glutted 
with  1 learning’s  golden  gifts,’  swells  with  desire  for  the  magi- 
cian’s power: 

‘Emperors  and  kings 

Are  but  obeyed  in  their  several  provinces; 

But  his  dominion  that  exceeds  in  this, 

Stretches  as  far  as  doth  the  mind  of  man. 

A sound  magician  is  a mighty  god.  . . . 

How  I am  glutted  with  conceit  of  this!  . . . 

I’ll  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold, 

Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl.  . . . 


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FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


I’ll  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy. 

And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings; 

I’ll  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass, 

And  make  swift  Rhine  circle  fair  Wittenberg.’ 

To  satisfy  these  vast  desires,  he  summons,  by  his  mystic  art, 
Mephistophilis  from  Hell: 

'•Faust.  And  what  are  you  that  live  with  Lucifer? 

Meph.  Unhappy  spirits  that  fell  with  Lucifer, 

Conspired  against  our  God  with  Lucifer, 

And  are  forever  damned  with  Lucifer. 

Faust.  How  comes  it  then  that  thou  art  out  of  hell? 

Meph.  Why  this  is  hell,  nor  am  I out  of  it; 

Think’st  thou  that  I,  that  saw  the  face  of  God 
And  tasted  the  eternal  joys  of  heaven, 

Am  not  tormented  with  ten  thousand  hells 
In  being  deprived  of  everlasting  bliss? 

O Faustus,  leave  these  frivolous  demands 
Which  strike  a terror  to  my  fainting  soul. 

Faust.  What!  Is  great  Mephistophilis  so  passionate 
For  being  deprived  of  the  joys  of  heaven? 

Learn  then  of  Faustus  manly  fortitude, 

And  scorn  those  joys  thou  never  shalt  possess.’ 

Boldly,  to  obtain  four-and-twenty  years  of  power,  he  sends  an 
olfer  of  his  soul  to  Lucifer: 

‘Had  I as  many  souls  as  there  be  stars 
I’d  give  them  all  for  Mephistophilis. 

By  him  I’ll  he  great  emperor  of  the  world, 

And  make  a bridge  through  the  moving  air.  . . . 

Why  should’st  thou  not?  Is  not  thy  soul  thy  own?’ 

At  midnight  the  answer  comes,  and  the  bond  is  signed  with 
blood.  Pangs  of  conscience  come.  Good  and  evil  angels  plead, 
and  he  cries: 


‘O  Christ,  my  Saviour,  my  Saviour, 

Help  thou  to  save  distressed  Faustus’  soul ! ’ 

Too  late,  says  the  demon.  Plunge  into  the  rushing  of  time,  into 
the  rolling  of  accident,  and  deaden  thought  in  the  feast  of  the 
senses: 

‘Oh,  might  I see  hell,  and  return  again, 

How  happy  were  I then!’ 

He  is  conducted  invisible  over  the  whole  world,  around  the 
whole  circle  of  sensual  pleasure  and  earthly  glory,  hurried  and 
devoured  by  desires  and  conceptions  that  burn  within  him  like 
a furnace  with  bickering  flames.  Ever  and  anon,  in  the  midst 
of  his  transports,  he  starts,  falters,  and  struggles  with  the  toils 
of  Destiny: 


POETRY  — MARLOWE. 


317 


‘I  will  renounce  this  magic  and  repent.  . . . 

My  heart’s  so  harden'd  I cannot  repent; 

Scarce  can  I name  salvation,  faith,  or  heaven, 

But  fearful  echoes  thunder  in  mine  ears, 

“Faustus  thou  art  damned!”  the  swords,  and  knives, 

Poison,  guns,  halters,  and  envenom’d  steel, 

Are  laid  before  me,  to  despatch  myself, 

Had  not  sweet  pleasure  conquer’d  deep  despair. 

Have  not  I made  blind  Homer  sing  to  me 
Of  Alexander's  love  and  CEnon's  death? 

And  hath  not  he,  that  built  the  walls  of  Thebes 
With  ravishing  sound  of  his  melodious  harp, 

Made  music  with  my  Mephistophilis? 

Why  should  I die,  then,  or  basely  despair? 

I am  resolved;  Faustus  shall  ne’er  repent. 

Come  Mephistophilis,  let  us  dispute  again, 

And  argue  of  divine  astrology.’ 

The  term  expires,  and  the  forfeit  is  exacted.  Faustus  has  run 
the  round  of  his  brilliant  dream,  and  stands  on  the  brink  of  the 
Bottomless.  Never  was  such  an  accumulation  of  horrors  and 
anguish.  Mephistophilis  gives  him  a dagger.  An  old  man 
enters,  and  with  loving  words  warns  him: 

‘Oh,  stay,  good  Faustus,  stay  thy  desperate  steps! 

I see  an  angel  hover  o’er  thy  head, 

And  with  a vial  full  of  precious  grace 
Offers  to  pour  the  same  into  thy  soul: 

Then  call  for  mercy,  and  avoid  despair.’ 

He  would  weep,  but  the  devil  draws  in  his  tears;  he  would  raise 
his  hands,  but  he  cannot.  The  lovely  Helen  is  conjured  up, 
between  two  Cupids,  to  prevent  his  relapse,  and  the  wildfire 
kindles  in  his  heart: 

‘Was  this  the  face  that  launch’d  a thousand  ships, 

And  burnt  the  topless  tow’rs  of  Ilium? 

Sweet  Helen , make  me  immortal  with  a kiss. 

Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul ! See  where  it  flies. 

Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 

Here  will  I dwell,  for  Heav’n  is  in  these  lips. 

And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 

I will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee, 

Instead  of  Troy  shall  Wittenberg  be  sack’d; 

And  I will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 

And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest; 

Yea  I will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 

And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a kiss. 

Oh!  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air , 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a thousand  stars' 

The  clock  strikes  eleven.  He  implores  the  mountains  and  hills 
to  fall  upon  him,  would  rush  headlong  into  the  gaping  earth,  but 
it  will  not  harbor  him: 


318 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


‘Oh,  Faustus! 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 

And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually! 

Stand  still,  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 

That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come!  . . . 

The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 

The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damn'd. 

Oh,  I’ll  leap  up  to  my  God!— Who  pulls  me  down?  — 

See,  see,  where  Christ’s  blood  streams  in  the  firmament! 

One  drop  would  save  my  soul,  half  a drop:  ah,  my  Christ, 

Ah,  rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ! 

Yet  will  I call  on  him.’ 

The  clock  strikes  the  half  hour: 

‘Ah,  half  the  hour  is  past!  'twill  all  be  past  anon.  . . . 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a thousand  years, 

A hundred  thousand,  and  at  last  be  saved.’ 

The  clock  strikes  twelve: 

‘It  strikes!  it  strikes;  Now  body  turn  to  air, 

Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 

Oh  soul!  be  changed  into  small  water-drops. 

And  fall  into  the  ocean:  ne’er  be  found.’ 

This  tormented  soul,  who  reels  from  desire  to  enjoyment,  from 
the  diabolical  to  the  divine,  is  not  the  philosophic  type  of 
Goethe’s  Faust , the  ferment  of  whose  spirit  impels  him  towards 
the  ‘far-away,’  though  both  are  equally  lost  in  the  end;  but  I 
find  nothing  in  that  tragedy  equal,,  in  power  of  delineation,  to 
this  closing  scene  of  terror,  despair,  and  remorse. 

If  ever  there  was  poet  born,  Marlowe  was  one.  His  poetry 
is  irregular,  but  the  irregularity  is  that  of  the  extreme  flight  of 
virgin  nature,  the  inequality  of  the  young,  eager,  bounding 
blood.  His  Faustus  was  his  twin-spirit,  the  expression  of  the 
social  life  of  the  period, — restless,  self-asserting,  hot-headed, 
and  omnivorous.  Extremes  meet,  at  such  times,  in  such  men. 
With  capacity  for  Titanic  conceptions,  they  render  gentlest 
beauty  into  sweetest  music.  Capable  of  enamored  hate  and 
soundless  sensuality,  they  are  also  capable  of  the  most  delicate 
tenderness  and  the  purest  dreams.  Thus  Marlowe  could  leave 
his  powerful  verse,  his  images  of  fury,  and  say  to  his  lady-love, 
in  strains  like  the  breath  of  the  morning  which  has  swept  over 
flowery  meads: 

‘ Come  live  with  me  and  he  my  love , 

And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove % 

That  hill  and  valley,  grove  and  field. 

And  all  the  craggy  mountains  xjield. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 


POETRY  — THE  NATIONAL  DRAMA. 


319 


And  sec  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I make  thee  beds  of  roses. 

With  a thousand  fragrant  posies; 

A cap  of  flowers  and  a kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle; 

A gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 

Slippers  lin’d  choicely  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold; 

A belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds. 

With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning ; 

And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 

Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love.' 

What  are  the  marked  characteristics  of  this  drama,  now  ad- 
-vanced  to  the  point  from  which  Shakespeare  will  rise  to  the 
supreme  heights  of  poetry?  — Tamburlaine , the  first  play  in 
blank  verse  which  was  publicly  acted,  drove  the  rhymed  couplet 
from  the  stage,  and  fixed  forever  the  metre  of  English  tragedy  as 
blank.  Not  only  did  the  author  popularize  the  measure,  but  he 
perfected  it:  he  created  a new  metre  by  the  melody,  variety,  and 
force  which  he  infused  into  the  iambic;  not  a fixed,  unalterable 
type,  in  which  the  verse  moves  to  the  common  and  despotic  beat 
of  time,  but  a Proteus,  whose  varying  pauses,  speed,  and  group- 
ing of  syllables  make  one  measure  represent  a thousand.  It 
flows  impetuous  and  many-colored,  like  the  spirit  which  feels 
it — -not  studies  it  — and  revels  in  a stream  of  images.  Consider 
the  didactic  dignity  of  the  following: 

‘Our  souls  whose  faculties  can  comprehend 
The  wondrous  architecture  of  the  world, 

And  measure  every  wandering  planet's  course. 

Still  climbing  after  knowledge  infinite, 

And  always  moving  as  the  restless  spheres. 

Will  us  to  wear  ourselves,  and  never  rest 
Until  we  reach  the  ripest  fruit  of  all, 

That  perfect  bliss  and  sole  felicity, 

The  sweet  fruition  of  an  earthly  crown.’ 

Or  the  variable  modulations  of  these  lines— -in  particular,  the 
«daring  but  successful  license  of  the  first  and  third: 

‘ Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 

Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds, 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds, 

And  seld  seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price, 

As  one  of  them,  indifferently  rated, 

May  serve,  in  peril  of  calamity, 

To  ransom  great  kings  from  captivity.’ 


320 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Or  the  changeful  temper,  the  ‘plastic  stress’  of  these: 

‘Mortimer!  who  talks  of  Mortimer, 

Who  wounds  me  with  the  name  of  Mortimer, 

That  bloody  man?  Good  father,  on  thy  lap 
Lay  I this  head  laden  with  mickle  care. 

O,  might  I never  ope  these  eyes  again, 

Never  again  lift  up  this  drooping  head, 

O,  never  more  lift  up  this  dying  heart!’ 

Single  lines,  struck  in  the  heat  of  glowing  passion  or  fancy, 
seem  to  leave  a track  of  fire: 

‘Tyrants  swim  safest  in  a crimson  flood.’ 

‘Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile!’ 

‘And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils.’ 

‘See,  see,  where  Christ’s  blood  streams  in  the  firmament.’ 

•Thence  flew  Love’s  arrow  with  the  golden  head.’ 

‘I  know  he  is  not  dead;  I know  proud  death 
Durst  not  behold  such  sacred  majesty.’ 

Not  inaptly  has  a living  poet  described  Marlowe  as  singing  — 

‘With  mouth  of  gold,  and  morning  in  his  eyes.’ 

For  this  is  his  contribution  to  the  heroic  style, — that  he  found  it 
insipidly  regular,  and  left  it  various,  sometimes  redundant,  some- 
times deficient,  enriched  with  unexpected  emphases  and  changes 
in  the  beat.  Shakespeare  will  only  refine  it  from  wordiness,  and 
use  it  with  more  than  Marlowe’s  versatility  and  power. 

Our  first  tragedy  and  comedy  observed  the  classical  or  dramatic 
unities:  Unity  of  Action , which  required  that  the  action  repre- 
sented should  be  one , complete , and  important;  Unity  of  Time , 
which  required  that  the  incidents  of  the  play  should  naturally 
occur  within  one  day;  Unity  of  Place , which  required  that  the 
entire  action  should  naturally  occur  in  the  same  locality.  The 
Greek  drama,  relying  thus  upon  form  or  proportion,  ow6d  its 
charm  to  a certain  union  and  regularity  of  feeling.  In  its  sphere, 
it  spoke,  felt,  and  acted  according  to  nature  — that  is,  nature 
under  the  given  circumstances;  but  it  was  limited  by  the  physi- 
cal conditions  of  time  and  space,  as  well  as  bound  to  a certain 
dignity  and  attitude  of  expression,  selection  and  grouping  of 
figures,  as  in  a statue.  But  this  was  too  formal  and  stately  to 
suit  the  tastes  and  wants  of  an  age  or  people  distinguished  by 
its  novelty,  strangeness,  and  contrast.  The  whole  framework  of 
society  — customs,  manners,  aspirations,  religion  — had  changed. 


PROSE  — FORCES  — STYLE. 


321 


Hence  a sudden  revolution  in  the  dramatic  art.  Our  poets,  who 
felt  the  excitement  of  the  new  life,  disdained  paths  previously 
made,  scorned  the  thraldom  of  Greece,  the  servility  of  Rome. 
They  had  to  address  no  scholastic  critics,  but  the  people.  As 
one  of  them  said, — 

‘They  would  have  good  plays , and  not  produce 
Such  musty  fopperies  of  antiquity; 

Which  do  not  suit  the  humorous  age's  back 
With  clothes  in  fashion.1 

To  win  a mutable  attention  required  a multiform  shape.  At 
once  they  clung  to  the  human  nature  before  them, — its  appe- 
tites, passions,  frailties,  hopes,  imaginations,  heights  of  ecstasy 
and  depths  of  depravity.  The  theatre,  mingling  the  comic  with 
the  tragic,  was  to  be  a mirror  of  enchantment, — Gothic  in  the 
scope  of  its  design  and  the  boldness  of  its  execution.  While 
Italy  and  France  were  adhering  to  the  contracted  antique  model, 
two  nations  — England  and  Spain  — were  thus  spontaneously 
creating  a national  drama  accordant  with  their  own  sympathies 
and  experiences  — a movable  reflection  of  themselves. 

Prose. — The  poetry  of  the  period,  as  the  overflow  of  natural 
enthusiasm,  has  a decided  ascendancy  in  quantity  and  quality; 
but  the  powerful  vitality  which  impels  it  and  makes  it  great, 
begins  also  the  era  of  prose.  The  insatiable  desire  of  the  mind 
to  beget  its  own  image  gives  the  primary  impulse.  The  reforma- 
tion of  religion,  the  revival  of  antiquity,  the  influx  of  Italian 
letters,  traditions  of  the  past,  speculations  of  the  future,  inven- 
tion, travel,  and  discovery,  give  the  materials.  Philology  begins, 
notably  with  Cheke  and  Mulcaster;  artistic  theory  and  criticism, 
with  Sidney,  Wilson,  Ascham,  and  Puttenham,  who  explore  the 
rules  of  style;  narratives  of  adventure  and  observation,  with 
Hakluyt1;  history,  with  Holinshed,  More,  and  Raleigh;  the  essay, 
with  Lord  Bacon;  rational  theology,  with  Hooker;  romantic  or 
fanciful  fiction,  with  Lily.  In  physics,  medicine,  and  law,  curi- 
osity is  rife.  Editions  and  revisals  of  the  Scriptures  increased. 
The  roar  and  dash  of  opinions  creates  and  multiplies  pamphlet- 
eers, Anglican  and  Puritan,  sectarian  and  secular, — Skelton  a 
virulent  one,  Roy  a merciless  one,  Fish  a seditious  one,  Greene  an 
incessant  one,  Nash  a brilliant  one.  Men’s  brains  are  busy,  their 

1 The  Principal  Navigations , Voyages,  and  Discoveries  made  by  the  English  Nation. 

21 


322 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


spirits  stirring,  their  hearts  full.  With  the  new  resources  of 
thought  and  language,  conies  a new  sense  of  literary  beauty  — a 
new-born  pleasure  in  delicacy  and  grandeur  of  phrase,  in  the 
choice  of  words  and  the  structure  of  sentences.  We  see  it  first 
in  Lily’  S E/uphues,1  the  story  of  a young  Athenian  who,  after 
spending  some  time  in  Italy,  visits  England  in  1579.  Its  form 
is  Italian,  and  its  style  a skilful  elaboration  of  the  Italian  taste 
for  alliteration,  verbal  antithesis,  far-fetched  allusion.  To  ladies 
and  lords,  it  was  a novel  enchantment  to  read: 

‘ There  is  no  privilege  that  needeth  a pardon,  neither  is  there  any  remission  to  be 
asked,  where  a commission  is  granted.  I speake  this,  Gentlemen,  not  to  excuse  the 
offence  which  was  taken , but  to  offer  a defence  where  I was  mistaken.  A cleare  con- 
science is  a sure  card,  truth  hath  the  prerogative  to  speake  with  plainnesse,  and  the 
modesty  to  heare  with  patience.  It  was  reported  of  some,  and  beleueed  of  many,  that  in 
the  education  of  Ephoebus,  where  mention  is  made  of  Uniuersities,  that  Oxford  was  to- 
much  either  d efacecl  or  defamed.  I know  not  what  the  enuious  have  picked  out  by 
malice,  or  the  curious  by  wit,  or  the  guilty  by  their  own  galled  consciences;  but  this  I 
say,  that  I was  as  farre  from  thinking  ill  as  I find  them  from  iudging  well.  But  if  I 
should  goe  about  to  make  amends , I were  then  faulty  in  somewhat  amisse,  and  should 
shew  my  selfe  like  Apelles  Prentice,  who  coueting  to  mend  the  nose  marred  the  week; 
and  not  vnlike  the  foolish  Dier,  who  neuer  thought  his  cloth  Slack  vntil  it  was  burned. 
If  any  fault  be  committed,  impute  it  to  Euphues  who  knew  you  not,  not  to  Lylie  who 
hates  you  not.’ 

Once  more  in  Athens,  Euphues  writes: 

‘Gentlemen,  Euphues  is  musing  in  the  bottom  of  the  mountain  Silixedra,  Philau- 
tus  is  married  in  the  Isle  of  England:  two  friends  parted,  the  one  living  in  the 
delights  of  his  new  wife,  the  other  in  contemplation  of  his  old  griefs.’ 

The  new  fashion,  universally  admired,  ran  into  extravagance 
without  elegance,  overloaded,  strained,  and  motley.  Stamhurst 
in  the  dedication  of  a history  of  Ireland  writes,  quaintly  and 
ludicrously: 

‘My  verie  good  Lord,  there  have  beene  diuerse  of  late,  that  with  no  small  toile, 
and  great  commendation,  haue  throughlie  imploied  themselues  in  culling  and  packing 
togither  the  scrapings  and  fragments  of  the  historie  of  Ireland.  Among  which  crue, 
my  fast  friend,  and  inward  companion,  maister  Edmund  Campion  did  so  learnedlie- 
bequite  himselfe,  in  the  penning  of  certeine  breefe  notes,  concerning  that  countrie, 
as  certes  it  was  greatlie  to  be  lamented,  that  either  his  theame  had  not  beene  shorter, 
or  else  his  leasure  had  not  beene  longer.  For  if  Alexander  were  so  rauisht  with 
Homer  his  historie,  that  notwithstanding  Thersites  were  a crabbed  and  a rugged 
dwarfe,  being  in  outward  feature  so  deformed,  and  inward  conditions  so  crooked,  as 
he  seemed  to  stand  to  no  better  steed,  than  to  lead  apes  in  helL’ 

There  was  just  time  for  Gosson  to  have  read  Euphues  before  he 
wrote  in  The  School  of  Abuse: 

‘The  title  of  my  book  doth  promise  much,  the  volume  you  see  is  very  little: 
and  sithens  I cannot  bear  out  my  folly  by  authority,  like  an  emperor,  I will  crave 

1 From  the  Greek,  meaning  well  - grown , symmetrical  hence  clever , witty.  It  was 
really  on  the  culmination  of  the  grow  ing  influence  of  Italian  conceits  and  quibbles. 


PROSE  — RISE  OF  HISTORY. 


323 


pardon  for  my  phrensy  by  submission,  as  your  worship’s  to  command.  The  school 
which  I build  is  narrow,  and  at  the  first  blush  appeareth  but  a dog-hole;  yet  small 
clouds  carry  water;  slender  threads  sew  sure  stitches;  little  hairs  have  their  shadows; 
blunt  stones  whet  knives;  from  hard  rocks  flow  soft  springs;  the  whole  world  is  drawn 
in  a map,  Homer’s  “Iliad”  in  a nutshell,  a king’s  picture  in  a penny.’ 

Comparisons  mount  one  above  another,  sense  disappears,  atti- 
tudes are  visible.  But  out  of  this  youthful  wantonness  will 
spring  complete  art.  Tinsel  and  pedantry  will  pass,  beauty  and 
merit  will  remain.  Prose,  born  of  thought  rather  than  of  feeling, 
does  not  reach  literary  excellence  till  the  imagination  is  regu- 
lated, and  the  gaze  is  fixed,  not  to  admire,  but  to  understand. 

History.  — A whole  class  of  industrious  antiquaries  collected 
the  annals  of  the  by-gone  world,  and  embodied  them  in  English 
shape,  supplying  materials  for  the  historical  dramatist  and  the 
future  historian.  Daniel  gave  to  the  chronicle  a purer  literary 
form,  while  Raleigh’s  History  of  the  World  showed  the  widen- 
ing of  historic  interest  beyond  national  bounds.  If  there  was  no 
rhyming,  there  was  little  accuracy,  and  no  attempt  at  a minute 
tracing  of  cause  and  effect;  that  was  to  come.  The  compilers, 
following  the  beaten  path,  usually  began  at  the  Creation  and 
continued  to  the  date  of  publication.  Credulity  still  darkened 
the  field,  and,  surveying  it  complacently,  they  gathered  con- 
tentedly, with  both  hands,  seldom  doubting  the  truth  of  what 
from  childhood  they  had  been  taught  to  believe.  Thus  Holin- 
shed,  the  most  complete  of  our  chroniclers,  thinks  it  probable 
that  Britain  was  peopled  before  the  Deluge,  and  supposes  these 
primitive  Britons  to  have  been  drowned  in  the  flood.  He  can 
vouch  for  the  arrival  of  Ulysses,  inclines  to  the  derivation  of 
Albion  from  a huge  giant  of  that  name,  and  relates  the  story 
of  Brute,  the  great-grandson  of  HCneas,  with  unquestioning  con- 
fidence. He  inserts  a one-line  notice  of  4 Caxton  as  the  first 
practicer  of  the  art  of  printing,’  but  is  more  intent  in  the  same 
paragraph  to  speak  of  ‘a  bloody  rain,  the  red  drops  falling  on 
the  sheets  which  had  been  hanged  to  dry.’  It  was  reserved  for 
Raleigh,  in  his  unfinished  but  ambitious  work,  to  strike  into  a 
virgin  vein,  and  make  the  ordinary  events  of  history  assume  a 
new  face  by  the  noble  speculations  which  he  builds  on  them, 
often  profound,  oftener  eloquent. 

Theology. — A new  era  of  creed-formations  set  in.  The 
Articles  of  the  Anglican  Church,  now  in  number  thirty-nine, 


324 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


were  originally  forty-two,  drawn  up  under  the  supervision  of 
Cranmer  as  the  bonds  of  Christian  union,  the  conditions  of 
Christian  fellowship.  It  is  asserted,  in  this  confession  of  faith, — 

1.  That  there  is  an  infinite  Spirit,  and  ‘in  the  unity  of  this 
Godhead  there  be  three  persons  of  one  substance,  power,  and 
eternity,  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost.’ 

2.  That  the  fall  of  Adam  ‘brought  death  into  the  world  and 
all  our  woe.’ 

3.  That,  by  Adam’s  transgression,  we  are  shapen  in  iniquity, 
and  conceived  in  sin. 

4.  That  Christ,  of  the  same  substance  with  the  Father,  died 
for  our  original  guilt  and  our  actual  sins. 

5.  That  none  can  emerge  from  this  state  of  pollution,  and  be 
saved,  but  by  Christ. 

6.  That  every  person  born  into  the  world  ‘deserveth  God’s 
wrath  and  damnation.’ 

7.  That  ‘ predestination  to  life  is  the  everlasting  purpose  of 
God  ...  to  deliver  from  curse  and  damnation  those  whom  he 
hath  chosen  in  Christ  out  of  mankind.’ 

The  English  Reformers  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  arrived  at 
any  definite  conclusions.  Luther  and  Calvin  framed  the  specula- 
tive doctrines  for  Protestant  Europe.  Both  declared  the  utter 
depravity  of  human  nature,  and  1 eternal  fire  ’ the  punishment  of 
the  lost.  Calvin  was  an  uncompromising  predestinarian,  who 
taught  that  the  Fall  with  all  its  consequences  was  predetermined 
ages  before  the  Creation;  that  the  fate  of  each  individual  was 
thus  irrevocably  decided  before  he  was  called  into  existence;  that 
out  of  the  ruined  race  a few  are  selected  for  eternal  bliss;  that 
the  rest  are  pre-ordained  to  ‘most  grievous  torments  in  soul  and 
body  without  intermission  in  hell-fire  for  ever.’  Luther  was  only 
less  explicit,  hardly  aware,  perhaps,  of  the  extreme  to  which  his 
acrimonious  zeal  logically  carried  him.  The  mild  and  sagacious 
Erasmus  had  written  a defence  of  free-will,  to  which  Luther 
replies: 

‘The  human  will  is  like  a beast  of  burden.  If  God  mounts  it,  it  wishes  and  goes  as 
God  wills ; if  Satan  mounts  it,  it  wishes  and  goes  as  Satan  wills.  Nor  can  it  choose  the 
rider  it  would  prefer,  or  betake  itself  to  him,  but  it  is  the  riders  who  contend  for  its  pos- 
session.’ 

Again : 

‘This  is  the  acme  of  faith,  to  believe  that  He  is  merciful  who  saves  so  few  and  who 
condemns  so  many;  that  He  is  just  who  at  His  own  pleasure  has  made  us  necessarily 
doomed  to  damnation.’ 


PROSE  — RATIONALISM  AND  DOGMA. 


Thus  the  two  great  founders  of  Protestantism  designed,  it  would 
appear,  to  construct  a religious  system  which  should  be  as  dis- 
tinct and  exclusive  as  that  which  they  assailed,  but  which  should 
represent  more  faithfully  the  teachings  of  the  first  four  cen- 
turies. The  Puritans,  simple  and  rigorous,  preferred  the  grim 
and  pitiless  features  of  the  Calvinistic  system,  whose  spirit,  how- 
ever, has  long  been  yielding  to  conciliation  and  charity.  The 
Anglicans,  practical,  prudent,  and  more  worldly,  favored  rather 
the  less  gloomy  and  more  conservative  system  of  Luther.  Both 
found  common  ground  in  the  idea  of  the  inexorable  Judge,  the 
alarm  of  conscience,  the  impotence  and  inherited  poison  of  na- 
ture, the  necessity  of  grace,  the  rejection  of  rites  and  ceremonies. 
A period  of  passion  and  conflict  throws  men  naturally  upon  dog- 
matic systems,  nor  is  the  mind  easily  extricated  from  old  theo- 
logical modes  of  thought.  A century  was  required  to  develop 
fully  the  germ  of  rationalism  that  had  been  cast  abroad.  Still, 
the  intellect  was  moving  onward,  the  tenor  of  life  was  changing, 
and  at  the  close  of  the  century  the  disposition  was  perceptible  to 
interpret  the  articles  of  special  creeds,  not  by  the  precept  and 
example  of  tradition,  but  by  the  light  of  reason  and  of  con- 
science. A remarkable  evidence  of  the  transition  is  found  in 
JewePs  Apology , and,  a generation  later,  in  Hooker’s  Eccle- 
siastical Polity , — the  two  most  important  theological  works 
which  appeared  in  England  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Both 
wrote  with  the  avowed  object  of  defending  the  Established 
Church,  but  their  methods  are  entirely  different.  The  first  incul- 
cates the  importance  of  faith,  collects  the  decisions  of  antiquity, 
and  regards  the  mei3  assertions  of  the  Fathers,  when  uncontra- 
dicted by  Scripture,  as  proofs  positive.  The  second  insists  upon 
the  exercise  of  reason,  and  lays  little  stress  upon  the  ancients, 
evidently  considering  that  his  readers  would  be  slightly  impressed 
Ly  their  unsupported  opinions.  He  says: 

‘For  men  to  be  tied  and  led  by  authority,  as  it  were  with  a kind  of  captivity  of  judg- 
ment, and,  though  there  be  reason  to  the  contrary,  not  to  listen  unto  it,  but  to  follow, 
like  beasts,  the  first  in  the  herd,  they  know  not  nor  care  not  whither:  this  were  brutish. 
Again,  that  authority  of  men  should  prevail  with  men,  either  against  or  above  Reason, 
is  no  part  of  our  belief.  Companies  of  learned  men,  be  they  never  so  great  and  rever- 
end, are  to  yield  unto  Reason.’ 

1 Written  in  1561  or  1562.  This,  the  Bible,  and  ¥ ok'*  Martyrs  were  ordered  ‘to  be 
Axed  in  all  parish  churches,  to  be  read  by  the  people.’ 


326 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


When  this  could  be  said,  the  English  intellect  had  made  immense 
progress. 

With  the  revolution  in  Church,  preaching  changed  its  object 
and  character.  It  became  more  earnest,  popular,  and  moral. 
The  Age  of  Doctrines  was  to  follow.  In  the  pulpit,  it  was  not 
yet  sought  to  exhibit  dialectics,  but  to  recall  men  — sailors,  sol- 
diers, workmen,  servants  — to  their  duties.  At  least,  this  is  what 
we  see  in  the  sermons  of  Latimer  (1472-1555),  a genuine  Eng- 
lishman, serious,  courageous,  and  solid,  sprung  from  the  heart 
and  sinews  of  the  nation.  He  never  speaks  for  the  sake  of 
speaking.  With  him,  practice  is  before  all;  theology  — the 
metaphysics  of  religion  — secondary.  To  reprove  the  rich,  who 
oppress  the  poor  by  enclosures,  he  details  the  needs  of  the 
peasant: 

‘A  plough  land  must  have  sheep;  yea,  they  must  have  sheep  to  dung  their  ground 
for  bearing  of  corn ; for  if  they  have  no  sheep  to  help  to  fat  the  ground,  they  shall  have 
but  bare  corn  and  thin.  They  must  have  swine  for  their  food,  to  make  their  veneries  or 
bacon  of : their  bacon  is  their  venison,  for  they  shall  now  have  hangum  tuum  if  they  get 
any  other  venison ; so  that  bacon  is  their  necessary  meat  to  feed  on,  which  they  may 
not  lack.  They  must  have  other  cattle:  as  horses  to  draw  their  plough,  and  for  car- 
riage of  things  to  the  markets;  and  kine  for  their  milk  and  cheese,  which  they  must 
live  upon  and  pay  their  rents.  These  cattle  must  have  pasture,  which  pasture  if  they 
lack,  the  rest  must  needs  fail  them:  and  pasture  they  cannot  have,  if  the  land  be  taken 
in,  and  enclosed  from  them.’ 

Only  the  wish  to  convince,  to  denounce  vice,  and  to  do  justice. 
No  grand  words,  no  show  of  style,  no  exaltation.  Generally,  it 
may  be  observed,  the  preachers  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  six- 
teenth century  were  accustomed  to  take  a wide  range,  to  bring 
together  into  a miscellaneous  assortment  topics  from  every 
region  of  heaven  and  earth.  Not  more  fastidious  as  to  manner. 
Their  style,  like  that  of  most  contemporary  prose,  is  simpler  in 
construction,  more  familiar  and  homely,  than  that  which  came 
into  fashion  in  the  later  years  of  the  Elizabethan  period.  Their 
kind  of  writing,  however,  though  indirectly  interesting  and  his- 
torically valuable,  can  hardly  be  regarded  as  partaking  the  char- 
acter of  literary  composition. 

But  that  which  penetrated  the  imagination  and  language  of 
England  more  than  any  word,  lay  or  ecclesiastic,  was  the  Bible 
itself,  wherein  the  simple  folk,  without  other  books  and  open  to 
new  emotions,  pricked  by  the  reproaches  of  conscience  and  the 
presentiment  of  the  dark  future,  looked  suddenly  with  awe  and 
trembling  upon  the  face  of  the  eternal  King,  read  or  heard  the 


PROSE  — THE  BIBLE  — ETHICS. 


327 


tables  of  his  law,  the  archives  of  his  vengeance,  and  with  the 
whole  attention  of  eyes  and  heart  filled  themselves  with  his  prom- 
ises and  threats.  Condemned,  hunted,  in  concealment,  Tyndale 
translated  from  the  Greek,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII,  the  New 
Testament  and  a portion  of  the  Old.  It  was  this  Book  which, 
revised  by  Coverdale,  and  edited  in  1539,  as  CromioelVs  Bible, 
again  in  1540,  as  Granger's  Bible , was  set  up  in  every  English 
parish  church  by  the  very  sovereign  who  had  caused  the  trans- 
lator to  be  strangled  and  burned.  It  was  not  only  a discovery  of 
salvation  to  the  troubled  conscience,  but  the  revelation  of  a new 
literature  — the  only  literature  practically  accessible  to  all,  and 
comprising  at  once  legends  and  annals,  war-song  and  psalm,  phi- 
losophy and  vision.  Imagine  the  effect  upon  minds  essentially 
unoccupied  by  any  history,  romance,  or  poetry,  and  anxiously 
alive  to  the  grandeurs  and  terrors  which  pass  before  their  eyes  as 
they  gather  in  crowds  Sunday  after  Sunday,  day  after  day,  to 
hear  its  marvellous  accent: 

‘Many  well-disposed  people  used  much  to  resort  to  the  hearing  thereof,  especially 
when  they  could  get  any  that  had  an  audible  voice  to  read  to  them.  . . . One  John 
Porter  used  sometimes  to  be  occupied  in  that  goodly  exercise,  to  the  edifying  of  him- 
self as  well  as  others.  This  Porter  was  a fresh  young  man  and  of  a big  stature;  and 
great  multitudes  would  resort  thither  to  hear  him,  because  he  could  read  well  and 
had  an  audible  voice.’ 

The  Koran  alone  can  boast  an  equal  share  of  reverence,  spread 
far  and  wide;  and  as  a mere  literary  monument,  the  English  Bible 
is  the  noblest  example  of  the  English  tongue.  Of  its  6,000  words, 
only  250  are  not  in  common  use,  and  nearly  all  of  these  last  are 
readily  understood. 

Ethics. — Occam,  the  Nominalist,  had  taught  that  moral  dis- 
tinctions originate  in  the  arbitrary  appointment  of  God;  that  ‘no 
act  is  evil  but  as  prohibited  by  Him,  or  which  cannot  be  made 
good  by  His  command.’ 

Catholics,  who  appealed  to  tradition,  Protestants,  who  appealed 
only  to  Scripture, — confirmed  the  pernicious  error.  On  none 
of  these  principles  could  there  be  a science  of  morality.  That 
was  possible  only  when  men,  seeking  for  just  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong,  should  begin  to  interrogate  their  moral  sense  more  than 
the  books  of  theologians,  and  make  this  faculty  the  supreme  arbi- 
ter, moulding  theology  into  conformity  with  its  dictates.  The 
moral  was  still  subordinate  to  the  dogmatic  side  of  religion.  It 


328 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


needed  the  profound  sagacity  of  Hooker  to  give  anything  like 
currency  to  the  following  principle,  in  which  the  rationalistic 
tendency  to  a philosophy  of  morals  is  first  decidedly  manifest: 

‘Those  precepts  which  learned  men  have  committed  to  writing,  transcribing  them 
from  the  common  reason  and  common  feelings  of  human  nature,  are  to  be  accounted 
not  less  divine  than  those  contained  in  the  tables  given  to  Moses;  nor  was  it  God’s 
intention  to  supersede  by  a law  graven  on  stone  that  which  is  written  with  His  own 
finger  on  the  table  of  the  heart.’ 

Two  years  later,  in  1596,  appeared  Lord  Bacon’s  Essays , 
which,  if  they  offered  nothing  new  to  the  English  heart,  revealed 
much  to  the  English  consciousness,  and  formed  an  emphatic 
agency  in  the  history  of  English  practical  ethics. 

In  general,  estimated  by  the  standard  of  the  present,  moral 
perceptions  were  clouded,  and  moral  sympathies  were  neither 
expansive  nor  acute.  Add  to  this  the  reflexive  influence  of 
religious  belief  — in  particular,  the  doctrine  of  exclusive  salva- 
tion, and  we  have  an  adequate  explanation  of  the  burnings, 
tortures,  imprisonments,  animosities  and  wars  which  for  so  many 
centuries  marked  the  conflicts  of  theological  bodies.  As  long 
as  it  was  believed  that  those  who  rejected  certain  opinions  were 
excluded  from  eternal  felicity,  so  long  would  scepticism  be 
branded  a sin,  and  credulity  a virtue.  As  long  as  the  Church, 
by  a favorite  image  of  the  Fathers,  was  regarded  as  a solitary 
Ark  floating  on  a boundless  sea  of  ruin,  the  heretic,  as  an 
offender  against  the  Almighty,  was  to  be  reclaimed  or  pun- 
ished, and  heresy  was  to  be  corrected  or  stifled  — by  persuasion 
if  possible,  by  violence  if  necessary.  While  some  of  the  perse- 
cutions, even  some  of  the  most  atrocious,  sprang  from  purely 
selfish  motives,  I doubt  not  that  they  were  mainly  due  to  the 
sincere  conviction  that  the  cause  of  truth  (as  apprehended) 
required  the  sacrifice  of  its  foes.  Men  had  yet  to  learn  that 
mere  acts  of  the  understanding  are  neither  right  nor  wrong; 
and  that  unbelief,  whether  good  or  bad,  must  receive  its  charac- 
ter from  the  dispositions  or  motives  which  produce  or  pervade  it. 

Science. — ‘In  Wonder,’  says  Coleridge,  ‘all  Philosophy  be- 
gan; in  Wonder  it  ends:  and  Admiration  fills  up  the  interspace.’ 
Better,  it  is  suggested, — and  Investigation  fills  up  the  inter- 
space. In  the  first  wonder  and  the  last,  the  poet  and  the  philos- 
opher are  akin;  but  the  emotion  tends  to  different  results.  The 
former  wonders  at  the  beauty  in  the  face  of  Nature,  but  seeks 


PROSE  — RISE  OF  SCIENCE. 


329 


no  explanation, — reads  its  inner  meaning,  and  tries  to  utter  it. 
The  latter  wonders  at  what  he  sees,  but  scrutinizes  appearances 
to  find  the  laws  which  regulate  them.  The  two  processes — im- 
aginative intuition  and  painful  analysis  — are  distinct,  not  to  be 
combined  in  one  intellectual  act,  nor  scarcely  to  coexist  in  one 
mind.  The  latter  does  not  assert  itself  till  objects  pass  from  the 
poetic  flush  of  emotion  into  the  colder  region  of  rational  insight. 
Therefore,  beyond  a few  exceptional  and  isolated  facts,  there  was 
as  yet  no  English  science.  But  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century  the  daylight  of  scientific  speculation  and  experiment  had 
already  arisen  on  the  Continent.  Memorably,  after  twenty  years’ 
study  of  the  heavens  from  the  window  of  his  garret,  Copernicus 
the  Pole  founded  modern  astronomy.  He  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion, as  had  Aristarchus  in  the  third  century  before  Christ,  that 
the  sun  is  immovable,  while  the  earth  and  planets  revolve  around 
it.  Afraid  of  public  opinion,  he  refused  to  publish.  Bruno  the 
Italian  espoused  his  theory  with  ardor,  propagated  it,  as  well  as 
the  plurality  of  worlds,  with  haughty  defiance, — and  was  burned 
by  the  Inquisition.  The  fact  survived,  soon  to  effect  an  impor- 
tant revolution  in  our  conceptions.  As  long  as  the  globe  was 
believed  to  be  the  central  object  of  the  universe,  and  the  stars 
but  inconsiderable  lights  to  garnish  its  firmament,  it  was  as- 
signed a similar  position  in  the  moral  scheme;  and  every  phe- 
nomenon, human  and  divine,  terrestrial  and  celestial,  was  sup- 
posed to  have  some  bearing  upon  the  acts  and  history  of  man. 
But  when  this  ‘goodly  ball’  was  seen  to  be  only  a moving  point 
in  infinite  space  — a mere  infinitesimal  fraction  in  creation,  human 
egotism  was  succeeded  by  a depressing  sense  of  insignificance, 
and  the  way  was  open  for  the  gradual  substitution  of  the  idea  of 
law  for  that  of  supernatural  intervention. 

Every  priest  in  the  Cathedral  of  Pisa,  every  woman  and  child 
at  Christmas,  saw  the  great  lamps  which  hung  from  the  ceiling, 
some  by  a longer,  some  by  a shorter  chain, — saw  them  swing  in 
the  wind  that  came  in  with  the  crowd,  as  the  Christmas-doors, 
storied  all  over  with  mediaeval  fictions,  opened  wide;  but  only 
Galileo,  a student  not  yet  twenty,  saw  that  the  motion  of  the 
swinging  lamps  wras  uniform,  and  proportional  to  the  length  of 
the  chain  — each  a great  clock  whereof  he  alone  had  the  dial. 
For  five  hundred  years  these  lamps,  swinging  slowly  to  and  fro, 


830 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


had  been  virtually  proclaiming  the  law  of  gravitation,  but  Gali- 
leo was  the  first  who  heard  it.  This  was  the  great  principle  of 
the  Pendulum.  So  does  genius  find  general  laws  in  facts  which 
have  been  familiar  to  everybody  since  the  world  was. 

In  England,  meanwhile,  much  of  the  progress  abroad  probably 
remained  unknown.  Various  mathematical  works  were  produced 
in  the  vernacular  in  the  first  half  of  the  century,  by  William 
Record,  a jnhysician.  Says  a contemporary: 

‘ He  was  the  first  who  wrote  on  arithmetic  in  English ; the  first  who  wrote  on  geome- 
try in  English;  the  first  who  introduced  algebra  into  England;  the  first  who  wrote  on 
astronomy  and  the  doctrine  of  the  sphere  in  English;  and  finally  the  first  Englishman 
who  adopted  the  system  of  Copernicus.' 

He  styled  the  first  the  Ground  of  Arts;  the  second,  Pathway  to 
Knowledge ; the  third,  Whetstone  of  Wit;  the  fourth,  the  Castle 
of  Knowledge.  In  1599,  Thomas  Hill  published  The  School  of 
Skill , which  is  described  as  4 an  account  of  the  heavens  and  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  replete  with  those  notions  on  astrology  and 
physics  which  are  not  very  common  in  the  works  of  Record.’ 
The  author  refers  to  the  scheme  of  Pythagoras  and  Copernicus, 
by  which,  as  he  expresses  it,  4 they  took  the  earth  from  the 
middle  of  the  world,  and  placed  it  in  a peculiar  orb.’  He  adds: 

‘But  overpassing  such  reasons,  lest  by  the  newness  of  the  arguments  they  may 
offend  or  trouble  young  students  in  the  art,  we  therefore  (by  true  knowledge  of  the  wise) 
do  attribute  the  middle  seat  of  the  world  to  the  earth,  and  appoint  it  the  centre  of  the 
whole.’ 

Gilbert’s  book  On  Magnetism  (1600)  marks  the  origin  of  the 
modern  science  of  electricity.  Medicine  was  practiced  and 
taught  on  the  revised  principles  of  the  ancients.  Henry  VIII 
incorporated  the  College  of  Physicians  in  1518.  From  the  time 
of  Edward  the  Confessor,  the  power  of  kings,  to  touch  for  the 
King’s  Evil  seems  never  to  have  been  doubted,  and  to  have  been 
extensively  exercised.  The  Breviary  of  Health , by  Andrew 
Borde  (1547),  is  a curious  suggestion  of  the  state  of  medical 
science.  It  has  a prologue  addressed  to  physicians,  beginning: 

‘Egregious  doctors,  and  masters  of  the  eximious  and  arcane  science  of  physick,  of 
your  urbanity  exasperate  not  yourselves  against  me  for  making  this  little  volume.' 

The  ‘volume’  treats  not  only  of  bodily  disease,  but  of  mental, 
as  in  ‘the  174  Chapter,’  which  4 doth  shewe  of  an  infirmitie 
named  Hereos’: 

'■Uereos  is  the  Grckc  worde.  In  Latin,  it  is  named  Amor.  In  English  it  is  named 
Love-sick,  and  women  may  haue  this  fickleness  as  well  as  men.  Young  persons  be  much 
troubled  with  this  impediment.’ 


PROSE  — REVIVAL  OF  PHILOSOPHY. 


331 


The  following  is  the  remedy  prescribed: 

‘First  I do  advertize  every  person  not  to  set  to  the  heart  what  another  doth  set  to  the 
hole.  Let  no  man  set  his  love  so  far,  but  that  he  may  withdraw  it  betime;  and  muse  not, 
but  use  mirth  and  mery  company  and  be  wyse,  and  not  foolish.’ 

Philosophy. — So  far  as  it  concerns  the  history  of  philoso- 
phy, the  Renaissance  meant  the  revival  of  Platonism  and  the 
insurgence  against  scholastic  antiquity.  Never  had  monarch 
been  so  nearly  universal  and  absolute  as  Aristotle.  For  two 
thousand  years  he  had  dictated  to  the  nations  what  to  believe. 
Amid  all  the  commotions  of  Empire  and  the  war  of  words,  he 
had  kept  his  throne  and  state,  unshaken  and  undisturbed.  His 
autocratical  edict  was  placed  by  the  side  of  the  Gospel.  His  ten 
categories,  which  pretend  to  classify  every  object  of  human 
apprehension,  were  held  as  another  Revelation.  Universities 
were  his  sentinels.  Parliaments  issued  decrees  banishing  those 
who  maintained  theses  against  him.  His  name  was  a synonym 
for  reason.  To  contradict  him  was  to  contradict  the  Church, 
whose  integrity  was  based  on  the  immovable  conformity  of  all 
human  opinions.  In  vain  did  Galileo  try  to  convince  the  learned 
of  Pisa  that  bodies  of  unequal  weight,  dropped  from  the  same 
height,  would  reach  the  ground  in  equal  times.  They  saw  the 
weights  fall  from  the  top  of  the  tower,  saw  them  strike  the 
ground  simultaneously;  but  they  would  not  believe,  for  Aristotle 
had  said  that  a ten-pound  weight  would  fall  ten  times  as  fast  as 
a one-pound  weight.  A student,  having  detected  spots  in  the 
sun,  communicated  his  discovery  to  a worthy  priest,  who  replied: 

‘My  son,  I have  read  Aristotle  many  times,  and  I assure  you  there  is  nothing  of  the 
kind  mentioned  by  him.  Go  rest  in  peace;  and  be  certain  that  the  spots  which  you  have 
seen  are  in  your  eyes,  and  not  in  the  sun.' 

But  early  in  the  sixteenth  century  revolt  had  broken  forth,  in 
Italy,  in  Spain,  in  France,  in  Germany,  even  in  England.  In 
1535,  a royal  commission  abolished  from  the  two  universities  the 
works  of  the  famous  Duns  Scotus.  Said  the  report,  in  a tone  of 
triumph:  ‘We  have  set  Dunce  in  Bocardo,1  and  have  utterly 
banished  him  from  Oxford  forever,  with  all  his  blind  glosses.’ 
In  1583,  Bruno,  a lionized  foreigner,  a knight-errant  of  truth, 
opened  under  the  patronage  of  Elizabeth,  a public  disputation,  in 
which  he  combated  the  Aristotelians  with  stirring  eloquence. 

1 A figure  of  syllogism  terminatiug  in  a negative  conclusion,  and  implying  therefore 
annihilation. 


332 


FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


He  styled  the  wise  conclave  of  liis  opponents  ‘a  constellation 
of  pedants,  whose  ignorance,  presumption,  and  rustic  rudeness 
would  have  exhausted  the  patience  of  Job.’  To  all  the  reform- 
ers, however  various  their  doctrines,  one  spirit  seems  to  have 
been  common, — unhesitating  opposition  to  the  dominant  author- 
ity. Each  in  his  own  way,  the  new  generation  were  emancipat- 
ing themselves  from  the  dogmas  of  the  ancient  dictator.  Scho- 
lasticism, majestic  in  its  decay,  was  fast  losing  its  hold  upon  the 
mind  of  the  age.  As  yet,  however,  there  was  nothing  better  to 
accept  in  its  stead.  Being  the  whole  philosophy,  mental  and 
physical,  then  taught,  its  abolition  from  the  academical  course 
was  tantamount  to  the  ejection  of  philosophical  studies  entirely. 
So  it  happens  that  all  departments  — physics,  metaphysics,  and 
ethics  — were  alike  barren.  Materials  were  at  hand,  indeed,  for 
the  most  successful  research;  but  there  was  need  of  an  instructor, 
an  organizer,  who  should  reduce  to  form  and  method  the  discord- 
ant elements,  and  cut,  as  it  were,  a new  channel  in  which  the 
philosophic  spirit  of  the  world  should  flow. 

Resume. — The  feudal  system,  worn  out  and  vicious,  unable 
to  give  to  a general  society  either  security  or  progress,  disap- 
pears; and  European  society  passes  from  the  dominion  of  spirit- 
ual to  that  of  temporal  governments,  in  which  the  essential  fact 
is  centralization  of  power.  A new  and  remarkable  species  of 
politicians  appears  — the  first  generation  of  professional  states- 
men, all  laymen,  all  cultured,  all  men  of  peace,  who  direct  the 
politics  of  England  dexterously,  resolutely,  gloriously.  The 
nobles  cease  to  be  military  chieftains,  the  priests  cease  to  pos- 
sess a monopoly  of  learning.  Chivalry,  no  longer  a controlling 
institution,  has  been  refined  of  its  grossness,  and  retaining  only 
its  beauty,  gives  color  and  flavor  to  society,  and  tinctures  strongly 
poetic  sentiment.  Literature  proper  still  belongs  almost  exclu- 
sively to  the  upper  classes,  but  these  are  being  greatly  increased 
by  additions  of  rich  citizens,  who  are  growing  up  to  be  the  body 
of  the  nation.  Vestiges  of  slavery  still  exist,  yeomen  lead  a 
coarse  and  brutish  life,  vagrancy  and  crime  are  inadequately 
suppressed  by  severe  laws  unequally  administered.  Language 
reaches  its  full  stature,  strong,  flexible,  and  copious;  adequate 
to  the  needs  of  philosophic  thought  and  of  deep  and  varied  feel- 
ing. The  aroused  spirit  of  travel  and  adventure  brings  races 


RESUME. 


333 

face  to  face,  widens  the  sphere  of  human  interest,  and  by  its 
revelations  gives  life  and  richness  to  the  imagination.  The 
Reformation,  connected  on  the  one  side  with  scholarship,  un- 
locks the  sealed  treasures  of  the  Bible,  and  opens  the  path  for 
modern  biblical  criticism;  connected  on  the  other  with  intoler- 
ance of  mere  authority,  it  leads  to  what  has  been  termed  ra- 
tionalism— the  attempt  to  define  the  laws  which  underlie  the 
religious  consciousness ; connected  with  politics,  it  is  linked 
historically  with  the  approaching  Revolution.  The  veil  woven 
by  human  hands  across  the  brightness  of  Christianity  is  rent 
asunder,  and  a new  meaning  is  given  to  the  words:  ‘God  is  a 
spirit;  and  they  that  worship  him  must  worship  him  in  spirit 
and  in  truth.’  The  Renaissance  achieves  the  discovery  of  the 
world  and  of  man, — the  first,  the  exploration  of  the  globe  and 
the  exploration  of  the  heavens;  the  second,  the  restoration  of 
Pagan  antiquity  — man  in  his  temporal  relations,  and  the  reno- 
vation of  faith  — man  in  his  spiritual  relations.  Printing  renders 
indestructible  all  knowledge,  and  disseminates  all  thought.  Sci- 
ence, rescued  from  the  hands  of  alchemy  and  astrology,  takes 
her  incipient  steps.  Philosophy,  sundered  from  Scholasticism 
and  Aristotle,  awaits  the  principle  of  order  — the  law  and  the 
lawgiver.  Prose,  waking  larger  and  richer  from  its  sleep,  passes- 
from  the  elegant  simplicity  of  More  to  the  formal  rhetoric  of 
Ascham,  and  thence  from  the  extravagance  of  Lily  and  the 
JEuphuists  to  the  decorated  eloquence  of  Raleigh  and  Sidney, 
gaining,  by  the  close  of  the  period,  much  in  copiousness,  in 
sonorousness,  in  splendor.  Poetry,  in  Skelton  an  instrument  of 
reform,  revives  as  an  art  in  Surrey,  who  gives  a sweeter  move- 
ment to  English  verse,  and  extends  its  ‘lyrical  range.’  In  the 
poems  of  Spenser  are  reflected  the  roseate  hues,  the  higher 
elements,  of  the  English  Renaissance;  while  its  higher  and  lower 
alike  are  reflected  in  the  drama,  which  is  both  indigenous  and 
national.  In  it  is  directly  imaged  the  whole  of  English  life  — 
character,  class,  condition,  in  all  their  varieties;  and  the  poets 
who  establish  it  carry  in  themselves  the  sentiments  which  it 
displays, — happy  and  abundant  feeling,  free  and  full  desire,  the 
overflowing  of  nature,  the  worship  of  beauty  and  of  vigor,  the 
energy  of  pride,  the  despair  of  destiny,  the  insurrection  of  reason, 
the  turbulence  of  passion,  the  brutality  of  evil  lusts,  and  the 


334  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

divine  innocence  of  love,  all  the  luxuriance  and  irregularity  of 
men  who  feel  the  sudden  advance  of  corporal  well-being,  and  are 
scarcely  recovered  from  barbarism.  A constellation  of  kindred 
spirits,  with  unequal  success  but  with  the  same  unconcerned  pro- 
fusion, express  the  new  art,  closing  around  Shakespeare,  who 
expresses  it  fully,  towering  above  his  fellows  ‘in  shape  and  ges- 
ture proudly  eminent,’ — all  impelled  by  the  same  causes  in  their 
whirling  and  eccentric  career;  for  the  productive  forces  which 
culminate  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  ripen  some  of  their  distinctive 
fruits  in  the  times  immediately  subsequent.  The  last  portion  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  with  the  earlier  of  the  seventeenth,  consti- 
tutes the  great  era  of  our  literary  history,  and  the  first  of  its 
stages  of  consecutive  progress,  in  which  the  warmth  of  soul,  the 
love  of  truth,  the  passion  for  freedom,  and  the  sense  of  human 
dignity,  are  the  promise  of  eternal  development.  Consider  the 
mass  of  knowledge  we  have  since  acquired  — knowledge  infinitely 
curious  and  infinitely  useful,  consider  how  much  of  this  kind  was 
acquired  in  the  ten  centuries  which  preceded  — then  you  may 
estimate  the  expansive  force  generated  in  this  notable  epoch  of 
human  growth. 


MORE. 

Like  Cato  firm,  like  Aristides  just, 

Like  rigid  Cincinnatus  nobly  poor,— 

A dauntless  soul  erect,  who  smiled  on  death. — Thomson. 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1489,  of  noble  parentage;  at 
fifteen,  a page  in  the  household  of  Cardinal  Morton,  who  said  of 
him:  ‘Whoever  may  live  to  see  it,  this  boy  now  waiting  at  table 
will  turn  out  a marvellous  man’;  at  seventeen,  a law-student  in 
Oxford  University;  championed  the  ‘Greeks’  against  the  ‘Tro- 
jans’; practised  his  profession;  lectured  on  divinity;  entered 
Parliament  at  twenty-two ; became  Speaker  of  the  Commons; 
defeated  the  royal  demand  for  a heavy  subsidy;  withdrew  from 
public  life  under  the  royal  displeasure;  rose  into  repute  at  the 
bar,  wrote  and  published;  was  forced  back  into  the  political  cur- 
rent by  the  accession  of  Plenry  VIII;  was  soon  in  the  king’s 


MORE. 


335 


favor  as  counsellor  and  diplomatist;  succeeded  Wolsey  as  Chan- 
cellor in  1529,  the  first  layman  appointed  to  that  office;  refused, 
as  a zealous  Catholic,  to  acknowledge  the  validity  of  Henry’s 
marriage  with  Anne  Boleyn,  or  his  headship  of  the  English 
Church,  and  the  neck  that  oft  had  been  familiarly  encircled  by 
the  royal  arm  was  in  1535  cleft  by  the  headsman’s  axe.  A strik- 
ing illustration  of  the  truth  of  Wolsey’s  words  to  Cromwell, — 

‘How  wretched 

Is  that  poor  man  who  hangs  on  princes’  favors ! 1 

Writings. — He  wrote  numerous  theological  tracts,  but  of 
local  or  passing  interest,  and  all  inflamed  by  a passion  which  be- 
trayed him  — otherwise  clear-headed  — into  violent  expression 
and  confusion  of  thought.  Much  of  his  fame  as  a writer  rests 
upon  his  Life  of  Richard  Ilf  of  doubtful  historical  value,  but 
of  great  philological  importance,  as  the  best  English  secular 
prose  which  had  yet  been  written.  More  is  better  known  by  his 
Latin  work,  Utopia , — a vision  of  the  kingdom  of  ‘Nowhere,’ 
the  leading  design  of  which,  under  the  veil  of  fanciful  fiction,  is 
to  correct  abuses  and  suggest  reforms.  A sailor  who  has  voy- 
aged into  new  and  unknown  worlds,  gives  him  an  account  of  an 
imaginary  republic  risen,  as  by  enchantment,  in  the  form  of  a 
crescent,  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  watery  waste.  In  its  laws  and 
institutions,  in  its  moral  and  physical  aspects,  it  realizes  the 
author’s  ideal  of  a perfect  society,  and  shows  thus,  by  contrast, 
the  defective  one  in  which  he  lives.  The  principal  city  of  the 
Utopians  — 

‘Is  compassed  about  with  a high  and  thick  stone  wall,  full  of  tunnels  and  bulwarks. 
A dry  ditch,  but  deep,  goeth  about  three  sides.  On  the  fourth  side  the  river  serveth  for  a 
ditch.  The  streets  be  twenty  feet  broad.  On  the  back  side  of  the  houses,  through  the 
whole  length  of  the  street,  lay  large  gardens.  The  houses  arc  curiously  builded  after  a 
gorgeous  and  gallant  sort,  with  three  stories,  one  over  the  other,  the  outside  being  of  hard 
plaster,  or  else  of  brick,  and  the  inner  side  well  strengthened  with  timber-work.  . . . 
They  keep  the  wind  out  of  their  windows  with  glass,  for  it  is  there  much  used,  and  also 
with  fine  linen  cloth  dipped  in  oil,  for  by  this  means  more  light  cometh  in  and  the  wind 
is  better  kept  out.’ 

In  Utopia  are  no  taverns,  no  fashions  ever  changing,  few  laws 
and  no  lawyers.  All  learn  agriculture;  and  each,  in  addition,  a 
trade.  They  labor  six  hours  a day,  and  sleep  eight.  War  is  a 
brutal  thing,  hunting  a degrading  thing: 

‘What  pleasure,  they  ask,  can  one  find  in  seeing  dogs  run  after  a hare?  It  ought 
rather  to  stir  pity,  when  a weak,  harmless,  and  timid  hare  is  devoured  by  a strong,  fierce, 
and  cruel  dog.  Therefore,  all  this  business  of  hunting  is,  among  the  Utopians,  turned 


336  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


over  to  their  butchers;  and  they  look  on  hunting  as  one  of  the  basest  parts  of  a butcher's 
work.’ 

Wisdom  is  preferred  to  riches,  the  formation  of  character  to  the 
accumulation  of  property.  Virtue  is  nobility.  Integrity  is  the 
marble  statue  which  survives  the  sacking  of  cities  and  the  down- 
fall of  empires: 

* The  Utopians  wonder  how  any  man  should  be  so  much  taken  with  the  glaring,  doubt- 
ful lustre  of  a jewel  or  stone,  that  can  look  up  to  a star,  or  to  the  sun  itself:  or  how  any 
should  value  himself  because  his  cloth  is  made  of  finer  thread;  for,  how  fine  soever  that 
thread  may  he,  it  was  once  no  better  than  the  fleece  of  a sheep,  and  that  sheep  was  a 
sheep  still  for  all  its  wearing  it.  They  wonder  much  to  hear  that  gold,  which  in  itself  is 
so  useless  a thing,  should  be  everywhere  so  much  esteemed,  that  even  man,  for  whom  it 
was  made,  and  by  whom  it  has  its  value,  should  yet  be  thought  of  less  value  than  it  is,* 
so  that  a man  of  lead,  who  has  no  more  sense  than  a log  of  wood,  and  is  as  bad  as  he  is 
foolish,  should  have  many  wise  and  good  men  serving  him,  only  because  he  had  a great 
heap  of  that  metal.’ 

To  this  day  tolerance  is  far  from  being  a general  virtue.  Perse- 
cution has  indeed  given  up  its  halter  and  fagot,  but  it  secretly 
blasts  what  it  cannot  openly  destroy.  In  ‘Nowhere,’  however,  it 
is  lawful  for  every  man  to  be  of  what  faith  he  will.  Each  may 
propagate  his  creed  by  argument  — never  by  violence  or  insult. 
Religion  rests  simply  on  nature  and  reason,  finds  its  centre  rather 
in  the  family  than  in  the  congregation,  holds  asceticism  to  be 
thanklessness,  and  bases  its  unity  on  the  moral  and  spiritual 
cohesion  of  motives.  If  Utopia  contains  impracticable  dreams  of 
political  organization,  it  also  anticipates  the  views  and  improve- 
ments of  the  latest  and  wisest  legislation.  While  in  England 
half  the  population  are  unable  to  read,  in  ‘Nowhere’  every  child 
is  well  taught.  The  aim  of  the  laws  is  the  comprehensive  wel- 
fare of  the  labor-class  as  the  true  basis  of  a well-ordered  common- 
wealth. Is  it  not  true  to-day  that  the  civilized  world,  with  its 
palaces,  libraries,  academies  of  science,  and  galleries  of  art,  rests 
on  the  solid  shoulders  of  farmers  and  mechanics?  All  the  im- 
provements in  our  criminal  system  are  the  Utopian  conceptions 
of  More,  who  insists,  centrally,  that  the  proper  end  of  punish- 
ment is  reformation,  and  that  the  most  effective  means  of  sup- 
pressing crime  is  prevention: 

‘If  you  allow  your  people  to  be  badly  taught,  their  morals  to  be  corrupted  from  child- 
hood, and  then  when  they  are  men  punish  them  for  the  very  crimes  to  which  they  have 
been  trained  in  childhood  — what  is  this  but  first  to  make  thieves,  and  then  to  punish 
them?' 

Style.  — Easy  and  flowing,  without  pedantry  and  without  vul- 
garisms; rivalling  in  purity  his  great  antagonist,  Tyndale;  so 


MOKE. 


337 


graphic  in  description  that  many*  of  the  learned  received  the 
Utopia  as  a true  history,  and  thought  it  expedient  to  send  mis- 
sionaries to  that  island  for  the  conversion  of  so  wise  a people  to 
Christianity;  so  buoyant  in  tone,  that  in  the  grave  and  sullen 
pages  of  polemics,  it  jests,  smiles,  rails,  or  drifts  into  ludicrous 
ribaldry;  for,  on  questions  of  religious  reform,  More  was  a mad- 
man, and  sarcasm  was  at  any  moment  liable  to  pass  into  scurril- 
ity. Thus,  of  one  Richard  Mayfield,  a monk  and  a priest,  he 
says: 

♦His  holy  life  well  declares  his  heresies,  when,  being  both  a priest  and  a monk,  he 
went  about  two  wives,  one  in  Brabant,  another  in  England.  What  he  meant  I cannot 
make  you  sure,  whether  he  would  be  sure  of  the  one  if  t’other  should  happen  to  refuse 
him;  or  that  he  would  have  them  both,  the  one  here,  the  other  there;  or  else  both  in  one 
place,  the  one  because  he  was  priest,  the  other  because  he  was  monk.’ 

Of  a famous  invective  against  the  clergy,  who,  though  only  ‘a 
four  hundredth  part  of  the  nation,  held  half  the  revenues,’  he 
writes: 

‘And  now  we  have  this  gosling  with  his  “Supplication  of  Beggars.”  He  maketh  his 
bill  in  the  name  of  the  beggars.  The  bill  is  couched  as  full  of  lies  as  the  beggar  swarm- 
eth  full  of  lice.' 

He  looked  upon  literature  without  humor,  as  a banquet  without 
sauce;  and,  even  in  combating  heresy,  conceived  it  better  4 to 
tell  his  mind  merrily  than  more  solemnly  to  preach.’ 

Rank.  — A scholar,  a lawyer,  a theologian,  a wit,  a politician 
without  ambition,  a lord-chancellor  who  entered  and  resigned  his 
office  poor,  a sage  whose  wisdom  lay  concealed  in  his  philosoph- 
ical pleasantry,  a theorist  and  a seer, — 

‘Who  could  forerun  his  age  and  race,  and  let 
His  feet  millenniums  hence  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge  dreamed  not  yet  ’ ; 

a martyr  who  laid  his  head  upon  the  block,  to  seal  his  conscience 
with  his  blood;  the  most  illustrious  figure  — save  Wolsey — in  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII;  an  author  who  missed  the  full  immortality 
of  his  genius  by  the  infelicity  of  his  subjects,  but  whose  massive 
folio  remains  a monument  of  our  language  in  its  pristine  vigor; 
memorable  as  the  first  in  jDrose  to  gauge  the  means  of  striking 
the  attention,  to  study  the  art  of  arrangement  and  effect;  hence, 
in  the  order  of  time,  the  first  of  our  great  English  prose  writers. 
The  following  letter  to  his  children  — in  itself  an  admirable  pict- 
ure— shows  an  intellect  grown  capable  of  self-criticism,  possessed 
of  ideas  and  expressing  them  by  superior  reflection : 

22 


338  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


‘The  merchant  of  Bristow  brought  unto  me  your  letters,  the  next  day  after  he  had 
received  them  of  you;  with  the  which  I was  exceedingly  delighted.  For  there  can 
come  nothing,  yea,  though  it  were  never  so  rude,  never  so  meanly  polished,  from  this 
your  shop,  but  it  procureth  me  more  delight  than  any  others’  works,  be  they  never  so 
eloquent:  your  writing  doth  so  stir  up  my  affection  towards  you.  But,  excluding  this, 
your  letters  may  also  very  well  please  me  for  their  own  worth,  being  full  of  fine  wit  and 
of  a pure  Latin  phrase:  therefore  none  of  them  all  but  joyed  me  exceedingly.  Yet,  to 
tell  you  ingenuously  what  I think,  my  son  John’s  letter  pleased  me  best;  both  because  it 
was  longer  than  the  ether,  as  also  for  that  he  seemeth  to  have  taken  more  pains  than  the 
rest.  For  he  not  only  painteth  out  the  matter  decently,  and  speaketh  elegantly;'  but  he 
playeth  also  pleasantly  with  me,  and  returneth  my  jests  upon  me  again,  very  wittily. 
Hereafter  I expect  every  day  letters  from  every  one  of  you:  neither  will  I accept  of  such 
excuses  as  you  complain  of ; that  you  have  no  leisure,  or  that  the  carrier  went  away  sud- 
denly, or  that  you  have  no  matter  to  write:  John  is  not  wont  to  allege  any  such  thing. 
And  how  can  you  want  matter  of  writing  unto  me,  who  am  delighted  to  hear  either  of 
your  studies  or  of  your  play;  whom  you  may  even  then  please  exceedingly,  when,  having 
nothing  to  write  of,  you  write  as  largely  as  you  can  of  that  nothing,  than  which  nothing  is 
more  easy  for  you  to  do. 

But  this  I admonish  you  to  do;  that,  whether  you  write  of  serious  matters  or  of 
trifles,  you  write  with  diligence  and  consideration,  premeditating  of  it  before.  Neither 
will  it  be  amiss,  if  yon  first  indite  it  in  English;  for  then  it  may  more  easily  be  translated 
into  Latin,  whilst  the  mind,  free  from  inventing,  is  attentive  to  find  apt  and  eloquent 
words.  And,  although  I put  this  to  your  choice,  whether  you  will  do  so  or  no,  yet  I enjoin 
you,  by  all  means,  that  you  diligently  examine  what  you  have  written  before  you  write  it 
over  fair  again;  first  considering  attentively  the  whole  sentence,  and  after  examine  every 
part  thereof ; by  which  means  you  may  easily  find  out  if  any  solecisms  have  escaped  you; 
which  being  put  out,  and  your  letter  written  fair,  yet  then  let  it  not  also  trouble  you  to 
examine  it  over  again;  for  sometimes  the  same  faults  creep  in  at  the  second  writing, 
which  you  before  had  blotted  out.  By  this  your  diligence  you  will  procure,  that  those  your 
trifles  will  seem  serious  matters.  For,  as  nothing  is  so  pleasing  but  may  be  made  unsavory 
by  prating  garrulity,  so  nothing  is  by  nature  so  unpleasant,  that  by  industry  may  not  be 
made  full  of  grace  and  pleasantness.  Farewell,  my  sweetest  children.’ 

Character. — Of  keen  irregular  features,  gray  restless  eye, 
tumbled  brown  hair,  careless  gait  and  dress, — the  outer  pictures 
the  inner  man,  cheerful,  witty  even  to  recklessness,  kindly,  half- 
sadly  humorous,  throwing  the  veil  of  laughter  and  of  tears  over 
the  tender  reverence  of  the  soul.  He  married  his  first  wife  out 
of  pure  benevolence,  thinking  how  much  it  would  grieve  her  to 
see  her  younger  sister,  whom  be  loved  the  better,  preferred 
before  her.  As  his  wife,  it  was  his  delight  to  train  her  in  his  own 
taste  for  letters  and  for  music.  Among  his  children,  he  was  a 
loving  companion  and  a wise  teacher,  luring  them  to  the  deeper 
studies  by  relics  and  curiosities  gathered  in  his  cabinet.  Fond 
of  their  pets  and  their  games  as  they  themselves.  He  would  take 
scholars  and  statesmen  into  his  garden  to  see  his  girls’  rabbits  or 
watch  the  gambols  of  their  favorite  monkey.  ‘I  have  given  you 
kisses  enough,’  he  wrote  them,  ‘but  stripes  hardly  ever.’  In  con- 
versation and  writing,  humor  was  his  constitutional  temper.  At 
the  most  solemn  moments  of  his  life,  he  was  facetious.  In  the 


MORE. 


339 


Tower,  denied  pen  and  ink,  he  writes  to  his  daughter  Margaret, 
and  tells  her,  ‘This  letter  is  written  with  a coal’;  but  that,  to 
express  his  love,  a peck  of  coals  would  not  suffice.  Climbing 
the  crazy  timbers  where  he  was  to  die,  he  said  gaily  to  the  lieu- 
tenant, ‘I  pray  you  see  me  safe  up;  and  for  my  coming  down, 
let  me  shift  for  myself.’  When  life  and  death  were  within  a 
second  of  each  other,  he  bade  the  executioner  to  stay  his  hand 
till  he  had  removed  his  beard,  observing,  ‘ Pity  that  should  be 
cut,  which  has  never  committed  treason.’  His  fatalistic  maxim 
was : 

‘If  evils  come  not,  then  our  fears  are  vain; 

And  if  they  do,  fear  but  augments  the  pain.’ 

His  character  presents  many  opposite  and,  unhappily,  some  in- 
consistent qualities.  Beneath  his  sunny  nature  lay  a stern 
inflexibility  of  resolve.  When  he  took  office,  it  was  with  the 
open  stipulation,  ‘first  to  look  to  God,  and  after  God  to  the 
king.’  He  laughed  at  the  superstition  and  asceticism  of  the 
day,  yet  every  Friday  scourged  his  body  with  whips  of  knotted 
cords,  and  by  way  of  further  penance  wore  his  hair-shirt  next  to 
his  lacerated  skin.  Once  an  opponent  of  abuses  in  the  Church, 
when  the  Reformation  was  sprung,  he  went  violently  back  to  the 
extreme  of  maintaining  the  whole  fabric  of  idolatry.  Playful 
and  affectionate  in  his  own  household,  his  abuses  of  power  are  a 
cloud  on  his  memory.  Free-thinker,  as  the  bigots  termed  him, 
he  appeals  to  miraculous  relics  as  the  evidences  of  his  faith.  In 
allusion  to  a napkin  sent  to  King  Abgarus,  on  which  Jesus 
impressed  the  image  of  his  own  face,  he  says: 

‘And  it  hath  been  by  like  miracle  in  the  thin  corruptible  cloth  kept  and  preserved 
these  1500  years  fresh  and  well  preserved,  to  the  inward  comforts,  spiritual  rejoicing,  and 
great  increase  of  fervor,  in  the  hearts  of  good  Christian  people.’ 

Theoretically  opposed  to  sanguinary  laws,  he  spared  no  pains  to 
carry  the  most  sanguinary  into  execution.  He  wished  to  have  it 
engraved  on  his  tombstone  that  he  was  ‘ Furibus , Homicidis , 
Hcereticisque  molestus ’ — the  scourge  of  Thieves,  Murderers,  and 
Heretics  — the  last  being  the  greatest  malefactors  of  the  three. 

Influence. — Viewed  in  active  as  in  meditative  life,  in  public 
as  in  private  relations,  the  character,  the  events,  and  the  works 
of  this  distinguished  man  will  be  always  interesting  and  always 
instinctive.  Under  his  free  and  copious  vein,  the  vernacular 


340  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

idiom  enlarged  the  compass  of  its  expression.  To  him  belongs 
the  merit  of  having  struck  out,  in  advance  of  his  age,  and,  as  it 
afterward  appeared,  in  advance  of  himself,  a new  path  in  litera- 
ture,— that  of  political  romances,  wherein  his  successors  — among 
them,  Swift  — were  to  be  indebted  largely  to  his  reasoning  and 
inventive  talents.  His  antagonism  to  the  Reformation  could  at 
most  prove  a transient  evil,  hardly  appreciable,  if  so  mucli  as  a 
retarding  force.  But  the  comprehensive  dreams  of  the  Utopia 
have  haunted  every  nobler  soul.  Excellence  is  perpetual,  and  all 
of  it  exists  in  vision  before  it  exists  in  fact.  The  Utopia  has 
long  afforded  to  conservatives  a term  of  reproach  applicable  to 
all  reformatory  schemes  and  innovations.  There  is  a large  class 
of  persons  with  whom  the  idea  of  fnaking  the  world  better  and 
happier  is  ever  regarded  with  distrust  or  contempt.  He  who 
entertains  it  is  an  unpractical  dreamer.  His  project  is  straight- 
way pronounced  to  be  Utopian.  Of  which  the  moral,  to  the 
wise,  is:  Look  kindly  upon  the  ‘vagaries’  of  the  ‘dreamer’  and 
the  ‘fanatic’;  reflect  that  what  was  folly  to  our  ancestors,  is 
wisdom  to  us,  and  that  another  generation  may  successfully 
practice  what  we  now  reject  as  impossible  or  regard  with  an 
incredulous  smile.  The  idealizing  power  of  the  race  — I would 
have  it  engraved  upon  the  living  tablets  of  every  human  mem- 
ory— is  the  most  potent  force  of  its  development.  A family  of 
equals, — a community  without  want,  without  ignorance,  without 
crime, — a church  of  righteousness, — a state  where  the  intuitions 
of  conscience  have  been  codified  into  statutes, — are  all  possible, 
just  as  possible  as  cultivated  America,  jewelled  all  over  with 
cities  and  fair  towns,  factories  and  schools,  which  no  one  would 
have  dared  to  prophesy  some  hundred  years  ago.  A steam- 
engine  is  only  an  opinion  dressed  in  iron.  A republic  is  but 
an  idea  worked  out  into  men.  The  difference  between  a savage 
and  an  Angelo  was  once  a power  of  progress.  Desire  only  points 
to  the  reserve  of  power  that  one  day  shall  satisfy  it. 


THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  COURT. 


341 


SIDNEY. 


Warbler  of  poetic  prose.— Cowper. 

Biography. — Of  high  birth,  born  in  Kent,  in  1554;  at  thir- 
teen entered  Oxford,  where  he  won  distinction  as  a scholar;  at 
eighteen,  without  a degree,  though  trained  in  polite  literature, 
began  a tour  of  travel  embracing  France,  Germany,  and  Italy; 
was  in  Paris  during  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew;  read  Plato 
and  Aristotle;  studied  Astronomy  and  Geometry  at  Venice;  pon- 
dered over  the  Greek  tragedies  and  the  Italian  sonnets;  returned 
to  England  in  his  twenty-first  year,  a polished  and  accomplished 
man;  instantly  became  a favorite  of  the  Queen  and  the  Court, 
where  he  shone  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant;  at  twenty -two,  an 
ambassador  for  the  promotion  of  a Protestant  league  among  the 
princes  of  the  Continent ; at  twenty-nine,  married,  and  was 
knighted;  two  years  later,  was  a candidate  for  the  throne  of 
Poland,  but  yielded  to  the  remonstrance  of  Elizabeth,  who  feared 
to  lose  ‘the  jewel  of  her  times’;  shortly  after,  a cavalry  officer 
fighting  in  the  cause  of  the  Netherlands;  mortally  wounded  in 
battle,  he  died  on  the  17th  of  October,  1586,  lamented  abroad, 
honored  at  home  with  a public  funeral  in  the  cathedral  of  St. 
Paul’s,  while  the  whole  nation  went  into  mourning  for  their  hero. 

Writings. — Far  from  the  glittering  whirl  of  the  Court,  in 
the  shelter  of  the  forest  oaks,  Sidney  wrote  for  his  own  and  his 
sister’s  amusement  the  Arcadia , a romance  of  love  and  chivalry, 
narrated  in  prose  mixed  with  verse,  in  imitation  of  Italian  mod- 
els, with  pastoral  episodes,  in  the  manner  of  the  Spanish.  Two 
princes,  cousins,  in  quest  of  adventure,  attached  to  each  other  in 
chivalrous  fashion,  are  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Sparta,  wander 
providentially  and  mysteriously  into  the  kingdom  of  Arcadia, 
fall  in  love  with  the  king’s  two  daughters,  and,  after  passing 
through  many  severe  trials,  marry  them,  and  are  happy.  You 
will  find  in  it  profusion  of  startling  events  and  tragical  or  fan- 
tastic images, — shipwrecks,  deliverances,  surprises,  abductions, 
pirates,  wicked  fairies,  dancing  shepherds,  disguised  princes, 
songs,  allegories,  sensuous  beauties,  tournaments  of  wit.  It  is 
less  a monument  than  a relic,  not  more  an  image  of  the  time 
than  of  the  man,  who  had  said:  ‘It  is  a trifle;  my  young  head 


342  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


must  be  delivered.’  In  works  of  courtly  taste  and  impassioned 
youth,  look  for  excessive  sentiment.  A lover  sends  a letter  to 
his  love,  and  says  to  the  ink: 

‘Therefore  mourne  boldly,  my  inke;  for  while  shee  lookes  upon  you,  your  black- 
nesse  will  shine:  cry  out  boldly  my  lamentation ; for  while  shee  reades  you,  your  cries 
will  be  musicke.1 

Two  young  princesses  have  retired: 

‘They  impoverished  their  clothes  to  enrich  their  bed,  which  for  that  night  might 
well  scorne  the  shrine  of  Venus;  and  there  cherishing  one  another  with  deare,  though 
chaste  embracements;  with  sweet,  though  cold  kisses;  it  might  seeme  that  love  was 
come  to  play  him  there  without  dart,  or  that  wearie  of  his  owne  fires,  he  was  there  to 
refreshe  himselfe  between  their  sweet  breathing  lippes.1 

It  is,  in  part,  the  knightly  desire  of  effect;  in  part,  the  exagger- 
ation of  inventive  fire,  confusing  the  story  by  endless  digressions, 
and  marring  now  and  then  idea,  as  well  as  expression,  by  un- 
natural refinements.  Hence,  the  Arcadia  is  above  the  prose- 
level  by  its  poetic  genius,  absorbing  reveries,  and  tumultuous 
thoughts.  So,  it  was  long,  and  may  still  remain,  the  haunt  of 
poets.  Stately  periods,  luxuriant  imagery,  graceful  fancies,  natu- 
ral freshness,  piercing  through  the  outward  crust  of  affectation, 
withstanding  the  revolutions  of  times  and  tastes.  For  example: 

‘ In  the  time  that  the  morning  did  strew  roses  and  violets  in  the  heavenly  floore  against 
the  coming  of  the  sun,  the  nightingales  (striving  one  with  the  other  which  could  in  most 
dainty  varieties  recount  their  wronge-caused  sorrow)  made  them  put  off  their  sleep.1 

Or  the  scenery  of  Arcadia: 

‘There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately  trees;  humble  val- 
leys, whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with  the  refreshing  of  silver  rivers;  meadows, 
enamelled  with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers;  thickets,  which  being  lined  with  most 
pleasant  shade,  were  witnessed  so  to,  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  many  well-tuned 
birds;  [each  pasture  stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  security;  while  the  pretty 
lambs,  with  bleating  oratory,  craved  the  dam's  comfort;  here  a shepherd’s  boy  piping,  as 
though  he  should  never  be  old ; there  a young  shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal  singing ; 
and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her 
voice-music.1 

Growing  Puritanism  disparaged  poetry,  calling  the  poets  of  the 
age  ‘caterpillars  of  the  commonwealth.’  Sidney,  therefore,  as  a 
knight  battling  for  his  lady,  wrote,  in  heroic  and  splendid  style, 
The  Defence  of  Poesy.  The  conception  is  noble,  the  argument 
profound,  the  tone  vehement  and  commanding.  No  art  or  sci- 
ence, he  reasons,  produces  such  invigorating  moral  effects;  and  it 
possesses  this  excellence  by  its  superior  creative  power  to  dress 
and  embellish  nature.  He  says: 

‘Now,  therein,  of  all  sciences  — I speak  still  of  human,  and  according  to  the  human 
conceit  — is  our  poet  the  monarch.  For  he  doth  not  only  shew  the  way,  but  giveth  so 


SIDNEY. 


343 


sweet  a prospect  into  the  way,  as  will  entice  any.  man  to  enter  into  it.  Nay,  he  doth,  as 
if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a fair  vineyard,  at  the  very  first  give  you  a cluster  of 
grapes;  that,  full  of  that  taste,  you  may  long  to  pass  further.  He  beginneth  not  with 
obscure  definitions;  which  must  blur  the  margin  with  interpretations,  and  load  the  mem- 
ory with  doubtfulness;  but  he  cometh  to  you  with  words  set  with  delightful  proportion, 
either  accompanied  with,  or  prepared  for,  the  well-enchanting  skill  of  music;  and  with  a 
tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you,  with  a tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old 
men  from  the  chimney-corner;  and  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the 
mind  from  wickedness  to  virtue;  even  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to  take  most  whole- 
some things,  by  hiding  them  in  such  other  as  have  a pleasant  taste.  So  is  it  in  men, — 
most  of  whom  are  childish  in  the  best  things,  till  they  be  cradled  in  their  graves.  Glad 
they  will  be  to  hear  the  tales  of  Hercules,  Achilles,  Cyrus,  ASneas;  and  hearing  them, 
must  needs  hear  the  right  description  of  wisdom,  valour,  and  justice;  which,  if  they  had 
been  barely  — that  is  to  say,  philosophically  — set  out,  they  would  swear  they  be  brought 
to  school  again.’ 

It  was  natural  that  a spirit  so  ardent  and  aspiring  should  feel 
and  paint  the  sentiment  in  which  all  dreams  converge  — love. 
More  beautiful  than  anything  in  the  world  were  the  eyes,  love- 
lier still  the  soul,  of  Stella  (star)  who  inspired  his  adoration: 

‘ Stella,  sovereign  of  my  joy,  . . . 

Stella,  star  of  heavenly  fire, 

Stella,  load-star  of  desire, 

Stella,  in  whose  shining  eyes 
Are  the  lights  of  Cupid’s  skies.  . . . 

Stella,  whose  voice  when  it  speaks 
Senses  all  asunder  breaks; 

Stella,  whose  voice  when  it  singeth, 

Angels  to  acquaintance  bringeth.’ 

To  her,  he,  as  Astrophel  (lover  of  the  star),  addressed  one  hun- 
dred and  eight  sonnets,  besides  a number  of  songs;  and  in  addi- 
tion to  these,  wrote  sixteen  others,  chiefly  amatory.  Some  are 
artificial  and  cold;  others,  artless  and  warm:  some  forced  and 
painful ; others,  simple  and  sweet.  There  is  nothing  conven- 
tional here  — only  the  troubled  heart,  and  the  adored  image  of 
the  absent,  seen  through  worshipful  tears: 

‘When  I was  forced  from  Stella  ever  dear— 

Stella,  food  of  my  thoughts,  heart  of  my  heart  — 

Stella,  whose  eyes  make  all  my  tempests  clear  — 

By  Stella's  laws  of  duty  to  depart  ; 

Alas,  I found  that  she  with  me  did  smart; 

I saw  that  tears  did  in  her  eyes  appear; 

I saw  that  sighs  her  sweetest  lips  did  part, 

And  her  sad  words  my  sadded  sense  did  hear. 

For  me,  I wept  to  see  pearls  scattered  so; 

I sighed  her  sighs,  and  wailed  for  her  woe; 

Yet  swam  in  joy,  such  love  in  her  was  seen. 

Thus,  while  th’  effect  most  bitter  was  to  me, 

And  nothing  than  the  cause  more  sweet  could  be, 

I had  been  vexed,  if  vexed  I had  not  been.’ 


344  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


And  nothing*  gallant  or  far-fetched  in  this, — only  real  and  noble 
feeling,  told  in  changeful  melody: 

‘Stella,  think  not  that  I by  verse  seek  fame, 

Who  seek,  who  hope,  who  love,  who  live  but  thee; 

Thine  eyes  my  pride,  thy  lips  my  history: 

If  thou  praise  not,  all  other  praise  is  shame. 

Nor  so  ambitious  am  I,  as  to  frame 
A nest  for  my  young  praise  in  laurel  tree: 

In  truth,  I swear  I wish  not  there  should  be 
Graved  in  my  epitaph  a Poet's  name. 

Nor,  if  I would,  could  I just  title  make, 

That  any  laud  thereof  to  me  should  grow. 

Without  my  plumes  from  others’  wings  I take: 

For  nothing  from  my  wit  or  will  doth  flow. 

Since  all  my  words  thy  beauty  doth  endite, 

And  love  doth  hold  my  hand,  and  makes  me  write.’ 

What  more  genuine,  free,  and  graceful  than  this  invocation  to 
exhausted  nature’s  ‘ sweet  restorer  ’ ? 

‘ Come,  Sleep ! O Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 

The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 

The  poor  man’s  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 

Th’  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0 make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1 will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 

A chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 

A rosy  garland  and  a weary  head: 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me. 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see.’ 

But  there  is  a divine  love  which  continues  the  earthly;  a death- 
less beauty,  a heavenly  brightness,  which  fails  not,  and  is  the 
soul’s  sovereign  beatitude: 

‘Leave  me,  O Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust; 

And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things; 

Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust; 

Whatever  fades  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 

Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be; 

Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light, 

That  doth  both  shine,  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 

O take  fast  hold;  let  that  light  be  thy  guide 
In  this  small  course  which,  birth  draws  out  to  death. 

And  think  how  ill  becometli  him  to  slide. 

Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 

Then  farewell,  world;  thy  uttermost  I see: 

Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  life  in  me!’ 

Style. — Always  flexible  and  harmonious,  usually  decorated 
and  luminous,  but  ever  liable  to  youth’s  unripeness  and  inequal- 


SIDNEY. 


345 


ity;  commonly  easy  and  vigorous;  occasionally  running  into 
trivial  conceits  and  remote  comparisons;  now,  stately  or  ani- 
mated; now  cramped  or  irksome;  here  direct,  here  overloaded, 
as  of  a nimble  wit  that  must  regard  an  object  under  all  its 
forms,  delighting  in  endless  excursions,  and  perhaps  somewhat 
too  studious  of  display.  The  demand  for  what  is  fine  in  diction 
may  easily  degenerate  into  admiration  of  what  is  superfine.  Sid- 
ney’s style  is  not  a little  affected  by  the  prevalent  taste  for 
Euphuism , in  the  use  of  which,  however,  he  is  almost  always 
labored  and  unnatural.  The  following  passage  exhibits  the  arti- 
fice to  uncommon  advantage: 

‘The  messenger  made  speed  and  found  Argalns  at  a castle  of  his  own,  sitting  in  a 
parlor  with  his  fair  Parthenia,  he  reading  in  a book  the  stories  of  Hercules,  she  sitting 
by  him  as  to  hear  him  read ; but  while  his  eyes  looked  on  the  book,  she  looked  in  his 
eyes,  sometimes  staying  him  with  some  pretty  question,  not  so  much  to  be  resolved  of  her 
doubt,  as  to  give  him  occasion  to  look  upon  her.  A happy  couple!  he  joying  in  her,  she 
joying  in  herself,  but  in  herself,  because  she  joyed  in  him;  both  increased  their  riches 
by  giving  to  each  other,  each  making  one  life  double  because  they  made  a double  life 
one.  Where  desire  never  wanted  satisfaction,  nor  satisfaction  ever  bred  satiety;  he 
ruling  because  she  would  obey,  or  rather  because  she  would  obey,  she  therein  ruling.’ 

Rank. — Less  potent  and  comprehensive  than  other  spirits  of 
his  age,  but  more  beautiful  and  engaging  than  any;  a combina- 
tion of  the  scholar,  the  poet,  and  the  knight-errant;  a courtier 
petted  and  praised;  a patriot  who  failed  in  ambition,  though 
educated  a statesman,  because  too  fine  an  ornament  of  the  nation 
to  be  spared  for  its  defence;  a lover  who  failed  in  love,  marrying 
the  woman  he  respected,  and  losing  the  one  he  adored;  a soldier, 
a gentleman,  and  a gifted  writer,  whose  vigor,  variety,  and  idiom 
in  prose  mark  a decided  advance.  Largely  conspicuous  in  life, 
his  merits  are  apt  to  be  lo^t  on  the  modern  reader  in  consequence 
of  their  bedizened  dress;  for,  though  his  thoughts  were  noble 
and  his  feelings  genuine,  his  fancy  was  artificial,  and  tended 
incessantly  to  lift  his  rhetoric  on  stilts.  He  will  always  main- 
tain, however,  a high  place  as  an  aesthetic  critic,  nor  an  incon- 
siderable one  as  a sonneteer.  Into  what  final  mould  his  powers 
would  have  run,  to  what  heights  they  might  have  attained,  had 
they  not  been  cut  off  so  prematurely,  is  matter  for  speculation. 

Character. — So  rare  a union  of  attractions  is  difficult  of  defi- 
nition. 4 He  hath  had,’  was  the  simple  testimonial  of  a friend, 
‘as  great  love  in  this  life,  and  as  many  tears  for  his  death, 
as  ever  any  had.’  His  conception  of  chivalry  — ‘high-erected 


346  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


thoughts  seated  in  a heart  of  courtesy’ — is  the  fitting  descrip- 
tion of  his  own  manliness,  and  the  charm  that  made  him  the 
idol  of  court  and  camp.  Scholarly,  aspiring,  brilliant,  ingenuous, 
brave,  and  gentle.  With  a keen  sense  of  pleasure  and  a thirst 
for  adventure,  he  possessed  a gravity  beyond  his  years.  Like 
most  men  of  high  sensibility,  he  inclined  to  melancholy  and  soli- 
tude. His  chief  fault  — which  was  the  impassioned  energy  of  the 
age  — was  an  impetuosity  of  temper,  a trait  which  appears  in  the 
following  letter  addressed  to  his  father’s  secretary,  and  contain- 
ing what  proved  to  be  a groundless  accusation: 

‘Mr.  Molynenx— Few  words  are  best.  My  letters  to  my  father  have  come  to  the  eyes 
of  some.  Neither  can  I condemn  any  but  you  for  it.  If  it  be  so,  you  have  played  the 
very  knave  with  me;  and  so  I will  make  you  know,  if  I have  good  proof  of  it.  But  that 
for  so  much  as  is  past.  For  that  is  to  come,  I assure  you  before  God,  that  if  ever  I know 
you  do  so  much  as  read  any  letter  I write  to  my  father,  without  his  commandment,  or 
my  consent,  I will  thrust  my  dagger  into  you.  And  trust  to  it,  for  I speak  it  in  earnest. 
In  the  meantime,  farewell.' 

The  closing  scenes  of  his  life  display  the  crowning  qualities  of 
his  character, — magnanimity  and  seriousness.  On  the  field  of 
carnage,  mortally  wounded,  and  perishing  of  thirst,  a cup  of 
water  is  brought  to  him ; but  as  it  touches  his  fevered  lips  he  sees 
by  his  side  a soldier  still  more  desperately  hurt,  who  is  looking 
at  the  water  with  anguish  in  his  face;  and  he  says,  ‘Give  it  to 
this  man;  his  necessity  is  yet  greater  than  mine.’  In  his  last 
moments,  his  chaplain  — 

‘proved  to  him  out  of  the  Scriptures,  that  though  his  understanding  and  senses 
should  fail,  yet  that  faith  which  he  had  now  could  not  fail;  he  did,  with  a cheerful  and 
smiling  countenance  put  forth  his  hand  and  slapped  me  softly  on  the  cheeks.  Not 
long  after,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  hands,  uttering  these  words,  “I  would  not  change 
my  joy  for  the  empire  of  the  world.”  . . . Having  made  a comparison  of  God’s  grace 
now  in  him,  his  former  virtues  seemed  to  be  nothing;  for  he  wholly  condemned  his 
former  life.  “All'things  in  it,”  he  said,  “have  been  vain,  vain,  vain.”  1 

Influence. — A work  so  extensively  perused  as  was  the 
Arcadia  must  have  contributed  not  a little  to  liberalize  and 
dignify  English  speech,  and  to  create,  among  writers,  a bold  and 
imaginative  use  of  words.  From  him,  as  from  a fountain,  the 
most  vigorous  shoots  of  the  period  drew  something  of  their  verd- 
ure and  their  strength.  Shakespeare  was  his  attentive  reader, 
copied  his  diction,  transferred  his  ideas  — above  all,  his  fine  con- 
ceptions of  female  character.  Thus,  in  poetic  prose  of  Sidney: 

‘More  sweet  than  a gentle  south-west  wind,  which  comes  creeping  over  flowery 
fields  and  shadowed  waters  in  the  extreme  heat  of  summer.’ 


HOOKER. 


347 


Said  Shakespeare,  after  him: 

‘Oh!  it  came  o’er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 

That  breathes  upon  a bank  of  violets, 

Stealing  and  giving  odor.’ 

And  Coleridge: 

‘And  sweeter  than  the  gentle  south-west  wind, 

O'er  willowy  meads  and  shadowed  waters  creeping, 

And  Ceres"  golden  fields." 

And  Byron: 

‘Breathing  all  gently  o'er  his  cheek  and  mouth, 

As  o’er  a bed  of  violets  the  sweet  south." 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  moral  charm  of  his  character  wrought  bless- 
edly in  life;  and  the  noble  feeling,  the  lofty  aspiration,  that  lives 
in  and  exhales  from  the  record  of  his  heart  and  brain,  is  a part 
of  the  breath  of  human-kind,  to  nourish  pastoral  delight,  pure 
friendship,  and  magnanimous  thought. 


HOOKER. 

There  is  no  learning  that  this  man  hath  not  searched  into.  . . . His  books  will  get 
reverence  from  age.— Pope  Clement. 

Biography. — Born  near  Exeter,  in  1553,  of  parents  respect- 
able, but  neither  noble  nor  rich,  and  abler  to  rejoice  in  his  early 
piety  than  to  appreciate  his  early  intelligence.  They  designed 
him  for  a tailor,  but  to  his  humble  schoolmaster  he  appeared  ‘to 
be  blessed  with  an  inward  divine  light,’  and  therefore  at  the  age 
of  fourteen,  through  the  kindness  of  Bishop  Jewel,  was  sent  to 
Oxford,  where  he  rose  to  eminence  and  preferment.  After  four- 
teen years  of  exhaustive  study,  he  entered  holy  orders,  was  made 
deacon  and  priest,  and  married  a scolding  wife,  whom  he  had 
allowed  to  be  chosen  for  him  by  an  ignorant  low-minded  match- 
maker. In  1585,  he  was  appointed  Master  of  the  Temple;  but 
the  situation  neither  accorded  with  his  temper  nor  with  his 
literary  pursuits,  and  he  petitioned  his  superior  to  remove  him 
to  ‘some  quiet  parsonage.’  The  following  is  the  appeal: 

1 My  Lord,— When  I lpst  the  freedom  of  my  cell,  which  was  my  college,  yet  I found 
some  degree  of  it  in  my  quiet  country  parsonage.  But  I am  weary  of  the  noise  and  oppo- 
sitions of  this  place;  and,  indeed,  God  and  nature  did  not  intend  me  for  contentions,  but 
for  study  and  quietness.  And,  my  lord,  my  particular  contests  here  with  Mr.  Travers  have 


348  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


proved  the  more  unpleasant  to  me,  because  I believe  him  to  be  a good  man ; and  that 
belief  hath  occasioned  me  to  examine  mine  own  conscience  concerning  his  opinions.  And 
to  satisfy  that  I have  consulted  the  holy  Scripture,  and  other  laws,  both  human  and  divine, 
whether  the  conscience  of  him  and  others  of  his  judgment  ought  to  be  so  far  complied 
with  by  us  as  to  alter  our  frame  of  church-government,  our  manner  of  God's  worship,  our 
praising  and  praying  to  Him,  and  our  established  ceremonies,  as  often  as  their  tender  con- 
sciences shall  require  us.  And  in  this  examination  I have  not  only  satisfied  myself,  but 
have  begun  a treatise  in  which  I intend  the  satisfaction  of  others,  by  a demonstration  of 
the  reasonableness  of  our  laws  of  ecclesiastical  polity.  But,  my  lord,  I shall  never  be  able 
to  finish  what  I have  begun,  unless  I be  removed  into  some  quiet  parsonage,  where  I may 
see  God’s  blessings  spring  out  of  my  mother-earth,  and  eat  my  own  bread  in  peace  and 
privacy;  a place  where  I may,  without  disturbance,  meditate  my  approaching  mortality, 
and  that  great  account  which  all  flesh  must  give  at  the  last  day  to  the  God  of  all  spirits.’ 

First  appointed  to  a parish  in  Wiltshire,  he  was  in  the  following 
year  presented  to  a rectory  in  Kent,  where  the  remainder  of  his 
life  was  spent  in  meditation  and  the  faithful  discharge  of  his 
duties.  Never  strong,  he  died  in  November,  1600,  of  pulmonic 
disease  induced  by  a heavy  cold. 

Writings. — Against  the  non-conforming  Puritans,  Hooker, 
in  The  Lcncs  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  undertook  to  investigate 
and  define  the  right  of  the  Church  to  claim  obedience  from  its 
members,  and  the  duty  of  the  members  to  render  obedience  to 
the  Church.  His  opponents  insisted  that  a definite  scheme  of 
church  polity  was  revealed  in  the  Bible,  thus  reducing  the  con- 
troversy to  a mere  anarchy  of  opinions  about  the  meaning  of 
certain  texts.  With  that  aching  for  order  and  that  demand  for 
fundamental  ideas  which  characterize  a tranquil  spirit  and  a great 
mind,  he  founded  his  argument  on  general  conceptions,  and 
urged  that  the  laws  of  nature,  reason,  and  society,  equally  with 
those  of  Scripture,  are  of  divine  institution.  Both  are  equally 
worthy  of  respect.  It  is  the  province  of  the  ‘natural  light’  to 
distinguish  between  what  is  variable  and  what  is  invariable  in 
these  laws,  between  what  is  eternal  and  what  is  temporary  in 
Revelation  itself.  Hence  the  divinely  constituted  reason  of  man 
does  not  exceed  its  rights  in  establishing  certain  uniformities  and 
ceremonials  on  which  Scripture  may  be  doubtful  or  silent.  The 
English  Church  system  may  be  conformable  to  the  will  of  God, 
though  not  enjoined  by  any  clear  text  of  his  revealed  Word. 

What  was  transitory-  or  what  was  partial  in  the  book  may  be 
subtracted  without  injury  to  its  immortal  excellence;  for  its 
foundations  are  laid  deep  in  the  eternal  verities  which  are  the 
basis  of  all  duties  and  all  rights,  political  as  well  as  religious. 


HOOKER. 


349 


Its  central  idea  is  law,  as  apprehended  by  reason,  which  in  its 
essential  nature  is  one  with  the  self-conscious  infinite  reason  at 
the  heart  of  things.  ‘ May  we,’  he  indignantly  asks,  ‘ cause  our 
faith  without  Reason  to  appear  reasonable  in  the  eyes  of  men  ? ’ 
And  of  this  uncreated  Law  which  sustains  the  fabric  of  the 
universe,  and  weds  obligation  to  ecstasy,  he  says  in  language 
touched  by  a consecrating  radiance: 

‘Wherefore,  that  here  we  may  briefly  end:  of  law  there  can  be  no  less  acknowl- 
edged, than  that  her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world:  all 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage,  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care,  and  the 
greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her  power;  both  angels  and  men  and  creatures  of  what 
condition  soever,  though  each  in  different  sort  and  manner,  yet  all  with  uniform  consent, 
admiring  her  as  the  mother  of  their  peace  and  their  joy.’ 

Style.  — Methodical,  correct,  ample,  massive,  and  grand;  idio- 
matic without  vulgarity,  and  learned  without  pedantry.  The 
Latin  order  of  arrangement  was  with  Hooker,  as  with  all  the 
translators  of  the  period,  a favorite  construction.  For  example: 
‘Brought  already  we  are  even  to  that  estate’;  ‘able  we  are  not 
to  deny,  but  that  we  have  deserved  the  hatred  of  the  heathen.’ 
Often  it  is  used  with  powerful  effect,  giving  to  the  capital 
images  the  emphatic  positions;  as,  ‘Dangerous  it  were  for  the 
feeble  brain  of  man  to  wade  far  into  the  doings  of  the  Most 
High.’  Some  of  his  periods  are  cumbrous  and  intricate,  but  in 
general  they  roll  melodiously  on,  with  the  serene  might  of  the 
soul  that  inspires  and  moves  them,  rich  in  imagery  and  noble  in 
diction. 

Rank. — By  universal  consent,  one  of  the  great  in  English 
letters.  A learned  divine  without  fanaticism.  A persuasive 
logician,  from  the  chain  of  whose  reasoning  it  is  hard  to  detach 
a link,  without  a fracture.  A philosopher  whose  breadth  and 
power  of  mind  are  shown  not  only  in  the  conception  and  appli- 
cation of  one  majestic  principle,  but  in  the  exhibition  of  many 
principles  harmoniously  related.  None  before  him  had  his  grasp 
and  largeness;  few  after  him  have  been  so  comprehensive.  As 
he  was  one  of  the  loftiest  of  thinkers,  so  he  was  one  of  the  most 
practical.  The  idea  that  shone  in  the  heaven  of  contemplation, 
radiated  in  a thousand  directions  on  the  earth.  Worthy  to  be 
regarded  not  only  as  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  English  Church, 
but  as  one  of  the  chief  founders  of  English  prose.  It  was  said 
by  a contemporary  Romanist  that  he  had  never  read  an  English 


350  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


book  whose  writer  deserved  the  name  of  author  till  he  read  the 
first  four  books  of  ‘ a poor  obscure  English  priest  ’ on  Laws  and 
Church  Polity;  a judgment  which  points  at  least  to  the  fact  that 
the  ‘obscure  priest’  is  the  original  of  what  deserves  to  be  called 
English  literature,  in  its  theological  and  philosophical  domain. 

Character. — Grave,  mild,  modest,  and  devout ; in  youth 
ardently  studious,  and  in  manhood  conspicuous  equally  for  learn- 
ing and  for  eloquence.  As  a schoolboy  he  was  remarkable  for  his 
continual  questioning,  but  his  inquisitive  intellect  was  accompa- 
nied with  docility  of  disposition,  and  the  happy  teacher  spared  no 
efforts  to  advance  the  little  wonder.  His  body  was  feeble,  his 
soul  capacious.  He  suffered  much,  yet  was  without  fretful  or 
morbid  quality,  resolved,  like  Socrates,  to  make  a noble  use  of 
racking  pains  and  sordid  annoyances.  It  was  in  this  enlightened 
and  tolerant  spirit  that  he  bore  the  perpetual  cross  of  union  with 
a female  of  vulgar  manners,  of  unprepossessing  face,  of  snappish 
and  tyrannizing  temper.  A London  hostess,  on  the  occasion  of 
his  appointment  to  preach  a sermon  at  Paul’s  Cross,  had  oppor- 
tunely cured  him  of  a cold.  He  was  easily  persuaded  that  his 
constitutional  delicacy  required  a perpetual  nurse.  Her  benevo- 
lence not  stopping  here,  she  offered  to  provide  such  a one;  and 
he,  in  an  excess  of  gratitude,  promised  to  marry  her  choice.  On 
his  next  arrival,  the  artful  woman  presented  her  daughter,  and 
the  guileless  Hooker,  the  thinker  and  scholar,  the  man  of  inno- 
cent wisdom,  who  would  have  a nurse-wife,  got  a shrew.  She 
preferred  the  more  natural  office  of  vixen.  When  visited,  about 
a year  afterwards,  by  two  of  his  former  pupils,  he  was  found 
tending  a flock  of  sheep,  with  a copy  of  Horace  in  his  hand.  In 
the  house,  they  received  no  entertainment  but  his  conversation, 
which  Mrs.  Hooker  interrupted  by  calling  him  sharply  to  come 
and  rock  the  cradle;  for  she  would  have  it  understood  that  her 
husband  was  her  servant,  and  that  his  friends  were  unwelcome 
guests.  Cranmer,  in  taking  leave,  said: 

‘ Good  tutor,  I am  sorry  that  your  lot  is  fallen  in  no  better  ground  as  to  your  parson- 
age; and  more  sorry  that  your  wife  proves  not  a more  comfortable  companion  after  you 
have  wearied  yourself  in  your  restless  studies.1 

To  which  Hooker  made  the  characteristic  answer: 

‘My  dear  George,  if  saints  have  usually  a double  share  in  the  miseries  of  this  life,  I, 
that  am  none,  ought  not  to  repine  at  what  my  wise  Creator  hath  appointed  for  me,  but 
labor — as  indeed  I do  daily  — to  submit  mine  to  His  will,  and  possess  my  soul  in  patience 
and  peace' 


RALEIGH. 


351 


His  intelligence  was  essentially  moral;  and,  by  the  alchemy  of 
his  rare  spirit,  all  knowledge  and  experience  were  transmuted 
into  celestialized  reason. 

Influence. — To  Hooker  belongs  the  merit  of  first  fully  de- 
veloping the  English  language  as  a vehicle  of  refined  and 
philosophic  thought.  His  work  is  monumental.  It  is  still 
referred  to  as  a great  authority  upon  the  whole  range  of  moral 
and  political  principles.  The  beauty  of  his  daily  life  was  an 
agency  to  create  new  beauty  everywhere.  We  can  believe  that 
it  left  its  impress  even  upon  his  wife.  A man  of  noble  piety  is 
in  a community  like  a flower  that  fills  the  whole  house  with  its 
fragrance;  and  the  children  born  there  a hundred  years  later  are 
better  born  than  elsewhere,  because  that  man  spread  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  character  there,  and  uplifted  the  vulgar  when  they 
knew  it  not. 

Above  all,  Hooker  introduced  into  polemics  a new  spirit  and 
method  — philosophical  rather  than  theological.  Against  the 
dogmatism  of  creed  he  set  the  authority  of  reason,  to  which  he 
gave  so  large  a place  that  never,  even  to  this  day,  has  it  made  a 
similar  advance.  It  is  not  difficult  to  see  the  immense  impor- 
tance of  this  change, — a change  of  which,  indeed,  he  is  the 
representative  and  reactionary  rather  than  the  initial  and  efficient 
cause.  As  long  as  an  opinion  was  defended  by  the  dogmatic 
method,  whoever  assailed  it  incurred  the  imputation  of  heresy, 
and  it  was  easy  to  justify  his  persecution;  but  when  it  was 
chiefly  defended  by  human  reason,  which  leads  the  ablest  minds 
to  the  most  opposite  conclusions,  the  element  of  uncertainty 
entered,  and  punishment  was  felt  to  be  wrong  when  it  was  seen 
that  the  persecuted  might  be  right. 


RALEIGH. 


A great  but  ill-regulated  mind. — Hume. 

Biography. — Born  in  Devonshire,  in  1552,  the  younger  son 
of  a family  richer  in  ancient  lineage  than  in  patrimony;  entered 
Oxford,  but  quit  it  shortly  for  active  life,  with  no  resource  but 


352  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


his  enterprise  and  his  sword;  at  seventeen  a valorous  leader  in 
the  Protestant  cause  of  France,  subsequently  in  the  Netherlands, 
then  in  Ireland;  from  the  art  of  war,  turned  to  the  art  of  naviga- 
tion, which  had  led  Columbus  to  discovery  and  Pizarro  to  con- 
quest; planned  an  expedition  to  North  America;  planted  colonies 
in  the  wilds  to  which  the  royal  maiden  had  eagerly  given  the 
name  of  Virginia , but  failed,  the  colonists  returning  with  tobacco 
and  potatoes  instead  of  diamonds  and  gold;  rose  to  a favorite  of 
the  Queen,  was  knighted,  was  her  chief  adviser  in  the  Spanish 
invasion  of  the  Armada,  was  active  in  its  destruction  and  ser- 
viceable in  Parliament  ; a courtier  commanding  the  Queen’s 
guard,  riding  abroad  with  her  in  his  suit  of  solid  silver,  or  at- 
tending the  Court  in  dress  gorgeous  with  jewels,  from  the  huge 
diamond  which  buttoned  his  feather  to  his  shoes  powdered  with 
pearls;  intrigued  with  a maid  of  honor,  and  lost  the  favor  which 
had  been  the  pride  of  his  ambition;  married  the  maid,  and  was 
imprisoned  with  his  wife  in  the  Tower;  counterfeited  the  most 
romantic  despair  at  the  Queen’s  displeasure,  and  obtained  his 
freedom,  but  was  banished  the  presence;  thought  to  dazzle  her 
imagination,  and  went  in  quest  of  the  El  Dorado,  fabled  to  be  in 
the  interior  of  South  America,  where  the  sands  glistened,  the 
rocks  shone,  and  the  houses  were  roofed,  with  the  precious  metal; 
returned,  and  wrote: 

‘ Of  the  little  remaining  fortune  I had,  I have  wasted  in  effect  all  herein.  I have 
undergone  many  constructions,  been  accompanied  with  many  sorrows,  with  labor, 
hunger,  heat,  sickness,  and  peril.  From  myself  I have  deserved  no  thanks;  for  I am 
returned  a beggar,  and  withered.’ 

Restored  to  the  favor  of  his  mistress-sovereign  by  the  brilliancy 
of  his  maritime  enterprise,  he  was  discountenanced  by  James  I, 
whose  mind  had  been  poisoned  by  a malignant  rival;  was  tried 
on  a charge  of  treason,  condemned,  but  reprieved,  and  instead  of 
being  executed  was  committed  to  the  Tower,  where  he  was  con- 
fined for  twelve  years,  during  six  of  which  his  wife  was  permitted 
to  bear  him  company;  tempted  the  cupidity  of  the  king  by  the 
vision  of  a gold-mine  and  a new  empire  in  Guiana;  offered  to 
equip  a fleet  for  the  adventure,  and  was  released  but  not  par- 
doned; burned  a Spanish  town,  got  nothing  of  value,  was  forced 
to  return  a baffled  dreamer,  under  the  imputations  of  falsehood 
and  treachery  ; and  to  satisfy  the  implacable  Spaniards,  was 


RALEIGH. 


353 


executed,  in  1G18,  on  the  old  sentence,  which  had  been  suspended 
over  his  head  like  the  pointed  sword. 

'Writings. — His  prison-hours  were  made  memorable  by  the 
composition  in  his  cell  of  the  History  of  the  World.  He  begins 
with  the  Creator  and  the  creation  ; discusses  fate,  fore-knowl- 
edge, and  free-will,  the  site  of  Paradise,  the  travels  of  Cain;  the 
several  floods,  whose  dates  are  pretty  certain;  Noah’s  Ark,  which 
is  proved,  with  prodigious  labor,  not  to  have  rested  on  Ararat; 
descends,  through  sacred  story,  to  the  annals  of  Assyria,  Persia, 
Greece,  and  Rome;  closing  with  the  fall  of  the  Macedonian  Em- 
pire, b.c.  170;  and  infusing  into  his  voluminous  scroll  of  four 
thousand  years  the  foolish  and  the  wise  sayings  of  Pagan  and 
Christian  philosophers  and  poets,  dissertations  on  the  origin  of 
law  and  government,  digressions  on  slavery,  on  idolatry,  on  art,  all 
the  fables  that  were  believed  by  the  learned  and  the  unlearned 
alike,  all  that  his  own  eyes  had  observed  in  the  old  and  the  new 
worlds,  and  whatever  the  peculiar  studies  of  each  individual  in 
his  cultured  circle  could  afford.  Whoever  can  have  patience  to 
wade  through  the  first  half  of  the  book,  will  find,  when  he  reaches 
the  second,  that  his  pains  are  not  unrewarded.  In  its  versatile 
pages  are  eloquent  and  stirring  passages,  embodying  the  grave 
and  grand  idea  of  death  as  the  issue  throughout  — oblivion,  dust, 
and  endless  darkness.  Thus: 

‘We  have  left  Rome  flourishing  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  having  rooted  up  or  cut 
down  all  that  kept  it  from  the  eyes  and  admiration  of  the  world.  But,  after  some  con- 
tinuance, it  shall  begin  to  lose  the  beauty  it  had ; the  storms  of  ambition  shall  beat  her 
great  boughs  and  branches  one  against  another;  her  leaves  shall  fall  off,  her  limbs  wither, 
and  a rabble  of  barbarous  nations  enter  the  field  and  cut  her  down.’ 

Again : 

‘If  we  seek  a reason  of  the  succession  and  continuance  of  this  boundless  ambition  in 
mortal  men,  we  may  add  to  that  which  hath  been  already  said,  that  the  kings  and  princes 
of  the  world  have  always  laid  before  them  the  actions  but  not  the  ends  of  those  great 
ones  which  preceded  them.  They  are  always  transported  with  the  glory  of  the  one,  but 
they  never  mind  the  misery  of  the  other,  till  they  find  the  experience  in  themselves. 
They  neglect  the  advice  of  God,  while  they  enjoy  life  or  hope  it;  but  they  follow  the 
counsel  of  death  upon  his  first  approach.  It  is  he  that  puts  into  man  all  the  wisdom  of 
the  world,  without  speaking  a word,  which  God,  with  all  the  words  of  His  law,  promises, 
or  threats,  doth  not  infuse.  Death,  which  hateth  and  destroyeth  man,  is  believed;  God, 
which  hath  made  him  and  loves  him,  is  always  deferred.  ...  It  is  Death  alone  that  can 
suddenly  make  man  to  know  himself.  He  tells  the  proud  and  insolent  that  they  are  but 
abjects,  and  humbles  them  at  the  instant,  makes  them  cry,  complain,  and  repent,  yea, 
even  to  hate  their  forepast  happiness.  He  takes  the  account  of  the  rich,  and  proves  him 
a beggar,  a naked  beggar,  which  hath  interest  in  nothing  but  the  gravel  that  fills  his 
mouth.  He  holds  a glass  before  the  eyes  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  makes  them  see 
therein  their  deformity  and  rottenness,  and  they  acknowledge  it.1 

23 


354  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


This  was  his  great  literary  work;  but  his  miscellaneous  writ- 
ings are  so  various  that  they  have  been  classed  under  the  heads 
of  poetical,  epistolary,  military,  maritime,  geographical,  political, 
philosophical,  and  historical.  It  was  one  of  his  intentions  to 
write  an  English  epic;  but  his  busy  life  allowed  him  leisure  only 
for  some  scattered  and  fragmentary  efforts.  These,  however,  are 
affluent  of  grace  and  tenderness,  depth  of  sentiment  and  strength 
of  imagination.  Thus: 

‘Passions  are  likened  best  to  floods  and  streams;  « 

The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb; 

So,  when  affections  yield  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 

They  that  are  rich  in  words,  in  words  discover 
That  they  are  poor  in  that  which  makes  a lover.’ 

Or  his  reply  to  Marlowe’s  Passionate  Shepherd: 

‘If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 

And  truth  in  every  shepherd’s  tongue, 

These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 

When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 

And  Philomel  becometh  dumb; 

The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields: 

A honey  tongue,  a heart  of  gall. 

Is  fancy’s  spring,  but  sorrow’s  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  bed  of  roses. 

Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 

Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, — 

In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 

Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, — 

All  those  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed; 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need; 

Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love.’ 


Or  the  justness  of  moral  perception  in  the  couplet,  profoundly 
true : 

‘Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell, 

Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well.’ 


And  the  noble  pathos  of  the  Soul's  Errand: 


‘ Go,  Soul,  the  body’s  guest, 
Upon  a thankless  errand: 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant: 


Go,  since  I needs  must  die, 

And  give  the  world  the  lie.  . . . 
Tell  zeal  it  wants  devotion: 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust; 


RALEIGH. 


355 


Tell  time  it  is  but  motion ; 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust;  . . 
Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth; 
Tell  honour  how  it  alters; 


Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness; 
Tell  nature  of  decay; 

Tell  friendship  of  unkindness; 


Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth; 
Tell  favour  how  it  falters.  . . . 


Tell  justice  of  delay: 
And  if  they  will  reply. 


Then  give  them  all  the  lie.* 


Style. — Easy,  vigorous,  elevated,  as  a whole;  seldom  low, 
never  affected;  often  ornate,  with  an  antique  richness  of  imagery; 
showing,  when  most  careful,  the  artificial  structure  of  Sidney 
and  Hooker.  In  poetry,  simple,  sweet,  melodious  and  strong. 
Spenser  called  him  ‘the  summer’s  nightingale.’ 

Rank. — In  that  brilliant  constellation  of  the  great  which 
adorned  his  period,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  those  who 
added  eminence  in  letters  to  eminence  in  action.  Conspicuous  in 
an  era  prodigal  of  genius,  as  a soldier,  a statesman,  a navigator, 
and  a writer,  a valorous  knight,  and  the  most  splendid  of  adven- 
turers. An  orator  whom  the  Queen,  we  are  told,  ‘took  for  a 
kind  of  oracle.’  An  experimentalist  in  natural  phenomena,  seek- 
ing the  philosopher’s  stone  and  the  elixir  of  life.  In  political 
economy,  he  anticipated  the  modern  doctrine  of  Free  Trade;  in 
metaphysics,  Stewart’s  fundamental  laws  of  human  belief.  He 
is  the  pioneer  in  the  department  of  dignified  historical  writing, 
and,  could  he  have  tamed  the  wild  fire  of  his  erratic  dreams, 
would  have  won  a foremost  place  among  the  famous  poets  of  his 
day. 

Character. — A genius  versatile  as  ambitious.  What  strikes 
us  most  forcibly  is  his  restless  and  capacious  intellect, — his 
various  efficiency,  and  his  prompt  aptitude  for  whatever  absorbed 
him  at  the  moment;  his  superabundant  physical  and  mental 
vitality,  which  displays  itself  equally  in  literature  and  in  action. 
Haughty  in  prosperity,  base  in  humiliation.  With  vision  of  the 
moral  heights,  he  could  creep  in  crooked  politics,  or  intrigue  in 
dark  labyrinths,  and  was  an  adept  in  the  arts  of  bribery  and  of 
flattery.  It  was  thus,  when  a prisoner  for  his  love-treason,  that 
he  gallantly  raved  of  the  Queen,  aged  sixty: 

‘I  was  wont  to  behold  her  riding  like  Alexander,  hunting  like  Diana,  walking  like 
Venus;  the  gentle  wind  blowing  her  fair  hair  about  her  pure  cheeks  like  a nymph; 
sometime  sitting  in  the  shade  like  a goddess,  sometime  singing  like  an  angel.’ 

His  principal  defect,  even  when  his  ends  were  patriotic  and 
noble,  was  unscrupulousness  as  to  the  means.  But  we  will  re- 


356  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


member  that,  with  boundless  desires,  he  was  thrown  from  the 
first  upon  his  own  resources.  He  was  in  a sense  to  be  the  archi- 
tect of  his  own  destinies,  and  was  in  a measure  to  be  the  creature 
of  circumstances.  It  was  his  fate  to  make  headway  through 
subtle  and  plotting  factions. 

A courtier  holding  ‘the  glass  of  fashion,’  a daring  child  of 
fortune,  he  was  also  a recluse  thinker,  equally  renowned  for  his 
contemplative  and  his  active  powers.  It  was  in  misfortune,  after 
all,  that  his  noble  self  was  asserted, — never  more  grandly  than 
when,  the  night  before  he  was  beheaded,  he  wrote: 

‘Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust; 

Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 

When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 

Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days; 

But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
jVIy  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I trust!’ 

His  wits  were,  on  all  occasions,  equal  to  his  reputation.  ‘Traitor, 
monster,  viper,  spider  of  hell!’  cried  the  Attorney-General,  ‘I 
want  words  to  express  thy  viperous  treasons.’ — ‘True,’  said 
Raleigh  quietly,  ‘for  you  have  spoken  the  same  thing  half  a 
dozen  times  over  already.’  Dauntless  in  life,  reflection  had  taught 
him  how  to  die.  On  the  scaffold,  after  vindicating  his  conduct 
in  a manly  speech  to  the  spectators,  he  desired  to  see  the  axe. 
When  the  headsman  hesitated,  he  said:  ‘I  pray  thee,  let  me  see 
it;  dost  thou  think  that  I am  afraid  of  it?’ — As  he  ran  his 
fingers  over  its  keen  edge,  he  smilingly  remarked:  ‘This  is  a 
sharp  medicine,  but  it  will  cure  all  diseases.’  When  he  had 
extended  himself  for  the  stroke,  he  was  requested  to  turn  his 
head.  ‘So  the  heart  be  right,’  he  replied,  ‘it  is  no  matter  which 
way  the  head  lieth.’  When  he  had  forgiven  the  executioner  and 
had  prayed,  the  signal  was  made,  which  not  being  followed  im- 
mediately by  the  stroke,  he  said:  ‘Why  dost  thou  not  strike? 
Strike,  man  ! ’ 

Influence.  — He  contributed  to  that  passion  for  adventure 
and  discovery  which  gave  at  this  period  an  unusual  impetus  to 
the  mind  of  man.  His  exploring  captains  discovered  a virgin 
soil — Virginia.  His  attempts  at  colonization  were  indeed  fruit- 
less in  their  ostensible  aim,  but  were  instrumental  to  others  more 
successful  and  permanent;  just  as  this  man  plays  with  the  light- 


RALEIGH. 


357 


ning  and  brings  nothing  to  pass,  while  his  son  after  him  flashes 
intelligence  through  the  air.  Through  the  gratitude  of  later  times, 
less  for  what  he  did  than  for  what  he  strove  to  do,  Raleigh  — the 
capital  of  North  Carolina  — preserves  his  romantic  name.  He 
formed  the  famous  Mermaid  Club  — oldest  of  its  kind  — where 
Shakespeare  brought  to  the  feast  of  wit  the  brightness  of  his 
fancy,  and  Jonson  his  sarcastic  humor.  He  projected  an  office 
of  universal  agency,  and  thus  forecast  that  useful  information 
which  we  now  recognize  by  the  term  of  advertisement.  He 
joyed  to  pay  the  homage  of  his  protection  to  Spenser,  and  the 
severe  Milton  carefully  collected  his  maxims  and  his  counsels. 
And  so  this  restless  spirit,  who  seemed,  in  his  ceaseless  occupa- 
tions, to  have  lived  only  for  his  own  age  and  his  own  pleasure, 
was  the  true  servant  of  posterity,  who  hail  him  as  also  one  of  the 
founders  of  literature.  Had  his  life  been  devoted  to  letters  in- 
stead of  a variety  of  pursuits,  his  success  would  have  been  brill- 
iant and  lasting;  his  writings,  no  longer  now  a living  force,  would 
have  been  a perennial  power.  A universal  genius  is  not  likely 
to  reach  eminent  and  enduring  excellence  in  anything.  The 
beams  of  a thousand  suns  will  not  fire  the  softest  piece  of  timber 
when  radiating  freely.  Unity  of  effort  — a gathering  of  the  soul’s 
energies  — a limitation  of  the  field  of  exertion  — is  essential  to 
glorious  achievement.  This  shifting,  various  career  suggests  a 
second  truth  for  the  education  of  character, — that  inattention  to 
the  outer  world  promotes  attention  to  the  inner;  that  the  circum- 
stance which  sunders  the  mind  from  external  things,  impels  it 
inward,  from  the  life  of  sensation  to  the  life  of  reflection.  It  was 
through  the  Traitor’s  Gate  that  our  hero  passed  to  a tranquillity 
and  thoughtfulness  impossible  outside.  Within  the  sombre  walls 
of  the  Tower  shone  the  celestial  light.  When  the  body  is  im- 
prisoned, the  soul  may  be  most  free. 

‘Then  like  a bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 

Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 

And  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light.’ 


358  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


SPENSER. 


Who,  like  a copious  river,  pour'd  his  song 

O'er  all  the  mazes  of  enchanted  ground.— 77 lomson. 

We  must  not  fear  to  assert,  with  the  best  judges  of  this  and  former  ages,  that  Spen- 
ser is  still  the  third  name  in  the  poetical  literature  of  our  country,  and  that  he  has  not 
been  surpassed,  except  by  Dante,  in  any  other. — Hallarn. 

Biography. — Born  in  London  in  1552;  his  parents  poor  but  of 
ancient  fame;  educated  at  Cambridge,  where  he  imbued  himself 
with  the  noblest  philosophies;  quit  the  university  to  live  as  a 
tutor  in  the  North,  where  in  obscure  poverty  he  passed  through 
a deep  and  unfortunate  passion;  driven  again  southward  by  the 
scorn  of  the  fair  ‘Rosalind’;  wanted  to  dream,  and  sought,  with 
ceaseless  importunity,  the  patronage  of  wealth,  that  he  might 
live  in  the  free  indulgence  of  his  tastes;  was  sent  as  an  envoy 
to  France;  was  a guest  of  the  chivalrous  Sidney,  in  the  castle 
where  the  Arcadia  was  produced;  gained  the  favor  of  the 
Queen,  but  obtained  only  inferior  employment;  went  to  Ireland 
as  a private  secretary;  there  remained,  with  appointments  more 
honorable  than  lucrative,  on  a grant  of  forfeited  estate,  in  a 
lonely  castle,  from  which  the  view  embraced  a beautiful  lake,  an 
amphitheatre  of  mountains,  and  three  thousand  acres  of  barren 
solitude;  received  a visit  from  Raleigh,  who  — 

‘’Gan  to  cast  great  liking  to  my  lore, 

And  great  disliking  to  my  luckless  lot , 

That  banished  had  myself like  wight  forlorn , 

Into  that  waste  where  / was  quite  forgot 

was  created  poet  laureate,  and  decreed  a pension  of  fifty  pounds; 
visited  England  at  intervals  to  publish  poems,  or  to  find  a situa- 
tion in  his  native  home,  still  the  persistent  court-suitor  moving 
round  the  interminable  circle  of  ‘hope  deferred’;  tells  us  how  on 
a summer’s  day, — 

‘I,  whose  sullen  care. 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 
In  princes’  court,  and  expectation  vain 
Of  idle  hopes  which  still  do  fly  away. 

Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  brain, 

Walked  forth,  to  ease  my  pain, 

Along  the  shore  of  silver- streaming  Thames'; 

banished,  as  he  said,  to  his  undesired  and  savage  locality  as  often 
as  he  sued  to  leave  it,  whence  a rebellion  expelled  him,  after  his 


SPENSER. 


359 


house  and  youngest  child  had  been  burned  by  the  insurgents; 
died  three  months  later,  in  1599,  in  obscure  lodgings,  of  misery 
and  a broken  heart;  buried,  close  by  Chaucer,  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  Poets  held  his  pall,  and  cast  their  elegies  into  his 
grave. 

Appearance. — Face  long  and  somewhat  spare,  beard  closely 
shaven,  moustache  full  and  arching,  nose  of  the  Grecian  type, 
forehead  well-formed,  hair  short  and  curling,  eyebrows  heavy, 
eyelids  drooping,  eyes  thoughtful  and  dreamy,  lips  full  enough 
to  denote  feeling,  firm  enough  to  prevent  its  riotous  overflow. 
To  the  commonplace  gossips,  he  was  only  ‘ a little  man  who  wore 
short  hair,  little  bands,  and  little  cuffs.’ 

Writings. — As  on  an  inexhaustible,  many-winding  stream, 
whose  end  is  never  reached,  Spenser  floated,  many  a summer’s 
day,  adown  the  gently-flowing  vision  of  the  Fairy  Queen.  To 
please  the  Court,  the  scene  is  laid  in  contemporary  England,  and 
includes  all  the  leading  personages  of  the  day  under  the  veil  of 
knights  and  their  squires  and  lady-loves: 

‘Of  Faery  Land  yet  if  he  more  inquire, 

By  certain  signs,  here  set  in  sundry  places. 

He  may  it  find;  . . . 

And  thou,  O fairest  princess  under  sky. 

In  this  fair  mirror  mayst  behold  thy  face 
And  thine  own  realms  in  land  of  Faery.1 

To  please  posterity,  to  suit  this  wider  and  higher  application  of 
his  plan,  the  characters  double  their  parts,  and  appear  as  the 
impersonations  of  moral  attributes.  He  says: 

‘I  have  undertaken  to  represent  all  the  moral  virtues,  assigning  to  every  virtue  a 
knight  to  be  the  patron  and  defender  of  the  same ; in  whose  actions  and  feats  of  arms 
the  operations  of  that  virtue  whereof  he  is  the  protector  are  to  be  expressed,  and  the 
vices  and  unruly  appetites  that  oppose  themselves  against  the  same,  to  be  beaten  down 
and  overcome.1 

To  each  of  the  twelve  virtues,  each  embodied  in  a representative 
patron,  was  to  be  devoted  a book  of  twelve  cantos;  this,  if  well 
received,  to  be  followed  by  the  exposition  of  twelve  others,  the 
guardians  of  public  faith.  In  the  dedication  to  Raleigh,  he  tells 
us  that  ‘the  general  end  of  the  book  is  to  fashion  a gentleman 
• • • in  virtuous  and  gentle  discipline.’  And  in  the  person  of 
the  Fairy  herself,  he  informs  us:  ‘I  mean  glory  in  my  general 
intention,  but  in  my  particular,  I conceive  the  most  excellent  and 


360  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


glorious  person  of  our  sovereign,  the  queen?  In  the  legendary 
Arthur,  the  sun  of  the  whole  knightly  company,  man  was  to  be 
seen  perfected,  in  his  longing  and  progress  toward  the  Fairy 
Queen,  the  divine  excellence  which  is  the  true  end  of  human 
effort.  Thus  the  poem  may  be  characterized,  in  its  intent,  as  a 
dream  of  idealism,  a poem  of  the  human  soul  struggling  towards 
the  perfect  love,  which  is  God,  and  towards  the  perfect  beauty, 
which  consists  not  in  harmony  of  color  and  form,  but  in  the 
deathless  idea  which  shines  through  them.  Its  true  scene  is  not 
material  but  mental  space,  the  world  of  picture  and  illusion,  in 
which  the  actual  is  idealized  and  the  ideal  is  real.  In  this 
enchanted  region  twTo  worlds  are  harmonized  — the  beauty  of 
energy  and  the  beauty  of  happiness,  Christian  chivalry  and  pagan 
Olympus,  mediaeval  romance  and  classical  mythology;  the  second 
imaginary,  the  first  shadowy,  both  poetic;  each,  in  some  sort,  a 
mutilated  copy  or  suggestion  of  invisible  forces  and  ideas  — the 
heaven  of  Plato.  At  this  elevation,  fancy  loses  itself,  invention 
overflows,  apparitions  abound,  phrases  are  expanded  into  periods, 
objects  are  traced  with  lingering,  infinite  detail.  A wounded 
giant  falls  — 

‘As  an  aged  tree, 

High  growing  on  the  top  of  rocky  clift, 

Whose  heart-strings  with  keen  steel  nigh  hewen  be, 

The  mighty  trunk  half  rent  with  ragged  rift. 

Doth  roll  adown  the  rocks,  and  fall  with  fearful  drift. 

Or  as  a castle,  reared  high  and  round, 

By  subtile  engines  and  malicious  slight 
Is  undermined  from  the  lowest  ground, 

And  her  foundation  forced,  and  feebled  quite. 

At  last  down  falls;  and,  with  her  heaped  height, 

Her  hasty  ruin  does  more  heavy  make, 

And  yields  itself  unto  the  victor’s  might.’ 

All  this,  because  the  dream  is  pleasant,  and  the  dreamer  loves  to 
see  the  living  and  changing  figures  rise  and  display  themselves 
incessantly.  Now  consider  the  vastness  of  the  design,  which, 
when  completed,  was  to  comprise  not  less  than  a hundred  thou- 
sand verses.  What  result?  Only  six  books  completed, — alle- 
gories of  Holiness , Temperance , Chastity , Friendship,  Justice, 
and  Courtesy,  which,  however,  form  one  of  the  longest  poems  in 
existence;  no  movement  of  the  whole;  like  a train  whose  large- 
orbed  wheels  spin  pleasantly  without  progress;  fancy  strays,  the 
thread  is  lost  in  an  ecstasy  of  adornment;  features  blend,  posi- 
tions and  exploits  reappear,  imagery  fails,  and  the  first  book  sur- 


SPENSER. 


361 


passes  all  the  others  in  consistency  and  ‘splendor;  in  fact,  six 
separate  poems,  in  which  the  action  diverges,  then  converges, 
becomes  confused,  then  starts  again;  each  combining  the  imagin- 
ings of  antiquity  and  the  middle  age,  fair,  terrible,  and  fantastic; 
a series  of  airy  shapes  that  waver  and  are  gone;  a phantasmago- 
ria, one  part  allegory  and  nine  parts  beauty;  while  in,  under,  and 
over  all  is  a sublime  spirituality,  the  heaven  without  rent  or 
seam,  where  no  ache  or  sorrow  of  spirit  can  enter,  the  extreme 
verge  where  the  realm  of  mind  and  the  realm  of  sense  unite, — 
the  everlasting  Ought  and  Possible  of  human  life. 

The  reader  will  perceive  the  impossibility  of  giving  the  plot 
in  full,  if  plot  it  may  be  called, — 

‘That  shape  has  none, 

Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb.’ 

The  true  use  of  these  magical  pages  is  as  of  a noble  gallery  of 
art,  which,  without  stopping  long  enough  to  cloy  his  perceptions, 
one  visits  to  forget  himself,  for  solace  and  delight,  to  wonder,  to 
admire,  to  dream,  to  be  happy,  and  by  that  experience,  to  refine 
and  sweeten  his  tastes, — 

‘Lifting  himself  out  of  the  lowly  clust 
On  golden  plumes  up  to  the  purest  sky.’ 

Was  never  invention  more  prodigal  and  brilliant, — on  earth  a pil- 
grim, its  home  on  the  celestial  mountains.  Here,  in  a description 
of  the  House  of  Morpheus,  is  a suggestion  of  its  endless  grace, 
dreaming  pleasure,  and  picturesque  play: 

lA  little  lowly  hermitage  it  was 
Down  in  a dale , hard  by  a forest's  side , 

Far  from  resort  of  people  that  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro:  a little  wide 
There  was  a holy  chapel  edified, 

Wherein  the  hermit  duly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  things  each  morn  and  eventide; 

Thereby  a crystal  stream  did  gently  play 
Which  from  a sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alway. 

Arrived  there  the  little  house  they  fill, 

Nor  look  for  entertainment  where  none  was. 

Rest  is  their  feast,  and  all  things  at  their  will. 

The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has. 

With  fair  discourse  the  evening  so  they  pass, 

For  that  old  man  of  pleasing  words  had  store, 

And  well  could  file  his  tongue  as  smooth  as  glass: 

He  told  of  saints  and  hopes,  and  evermore 
He  streiv'd  an  Are  Mary,  after  and  before. 

And  drooping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them  fast; 

And  the  sad  humour,  loading  their  eye-lids , 


362  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

As  messenger  of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast 

Sweet  slumbering  dew;  the  which  to  sleep  them  bids; 

Unto  their  lodgings  then  his  guests  he  rids; 

Where,  when  all  drown’d  in  deadly  sleep  he  finds, 

He  to  his  study  goes,  and  there  amids’ 

His  magic  books  and  arts  of  sundry  kinds. 

He  seeks  out  mighty  charms  to  trouble  sleepy  minds.  . . . 

And  forth  he  call'd  out  of  deep  darkness  dread 
Legions  of  sprites,  the  which,  like  little  flies, 

Fluttering  about  his  ever  damned  head , 

Await  whereto  their  service  he  applies, 

To  aid  his  friends,  or  fray  his  enemies; 

Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  two 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true  seeming  lies; 

The  one  of  them  he  gave  a message  to, 

The  other  by  himself  staid  other  work  to  do. 

He  maketh  speedy  way  through  spersed  air, 

And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep , 

To  Morpheus’  house  doth  hastily  repair. 

Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steep, 

And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peep, 

His  dwelling  is;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  rvash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steep 
In  silver  dew  his  ever-drooping  head, 

While  sad  night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spread. 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast; 

The  one  fair  fram'd  of  burnished  ivory, 

The  other  all  with  silver  overcast; 

And  wakeful  dogs  before  them  far  do  lie. 

Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enemy, 

Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleep; 

By  them  the  sprite  doth  pass  in  quietly 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deep 
In  drowsy  fit  he  finds;  of  nothing  he  takes  keep. 

And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft , 

A trickling  stream , from  high  rock  tumbling  down. 

And  ever  drizzling  rain  upon  the  loft. 

Mix'd  with  a murmuring  wind,  much  like  the  soun 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a swoun : 

No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries . 

As  still  are  wont  to  annoy  the  walled  town. 

Might  there  be  heard ; but  careless  Quiet,  lies. 

Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,  far  from  enemies' 

Tn  the  paradise  of  devices,  you  are  unconscious  of  the  sentiment, 
and  when  reminded  of  it,  prefer  to  forget  it.  You  may  be  told 
that  Archimago,  a hypocritical  magician  (Hypocrisy)  lures,  be- 
cause he  cannot  be  detected,  Una  (Truth)  and  the  Red-cross 
Knight  (Holiness)  into  his  abode;  that,  while  they  are  asleep, 
he  sends  to  Morpheus  (the  god  Sleep)  for  a false  dream  to  pro- 
duce discord  between  them;  but  you  are  disenchanted,  and 
choose  rather  the  condition  of  reverie,  the  gentle  sway  of  the 


SPENSER. 


363 


measure  that  floats  you  lullingly  from  scene  to  scene.  The  de- 
light of  the  eyes  is,  for  once,  finer  than  the  instruction  of  the 
understanding.  The  images,  in  their  ideal  life,  are  more  potent 
as  poetry,  living  beings  and  actions,  than  as  symbols  investing  a 
theology. 

With  this  ever-flowing  fertility  of  inspiration,  there  is  no  per- 
plexity, no  haze.  Every  object  is  defined,  complete,  separate. 
If  it  moves  a thousand  leagues  from  the  actual,  so  do  we,  and 
are  not  the  less  interested,  because  it  is  not  flesh  and  blood.  It 
is  something  better,  something  beyond  the  importunate  trifles 
which  we  gravely  call  realities,  something  of  that  to-morrow, 
always  coming  and  never  come,  where  thought  and  fancy  are 
free.  We  take  pleasure  in  its  brilliancy  or  its  bravery,  without 
regard  to  whether  it  be  substantial.  We  are  upborne  by  associ- 
ation, and  grow  credulous  and  happy  by  contagion.  When  Sir 
Guyon  is  led  by  the  tempter  Mammon  in  the  subterranean  realm, 
through  caverns,  unknown  abysses,  across  wonderful  gardens,  by 
glittering  palaces,  trees  laden  with  golden  fruits,  we  follow,  see 
behind  us  the  ugly  Fiend,  with  monstrous  gait,  ready  to  devour 
us  on  the  least  show  of  covetousness,  and  enter  the  infernal  edi- 
fice, where  hideous  figures  are  outlined  in  the  darksome  depths, 
and  the  shining  metal  lights  up  the  shadowy  horror: 

‘That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strong. 

Like  a huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift, 

From  whose  rough  vault  the  ragged  branches  hung , 

Enibost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  gift , 

And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  rift , 

That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat; 

And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 

Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle  net, 

Enwrapped  in  foul  smoke,  and  clouds  more  black  than  jet. 

Both  roof  and  floor , and  walls  were  all  of  gold , 

But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay 
And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could  behold 
T'hue  thereof;  for  view  of  cheerful  day, 

Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display, 

But  a faint  shadoiv  of  uncertain  light; 

Such  as  a lamp , whose  life  does  fade  away; 

Or  as  the  moon , clothed  with  cloudy  night , 

Does  shore  to  him  that  walks  in  fear  and  sad  affright. 

In  all  that  room  was  nothing  to  be  seen, 

But  huge  great  iron  chests  and  coffers  strong, 

All  barr'd  with  double  bands,  that  none  could  ween 
Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong: 

On  every  side  they  placed  were  along; 


364  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


But  all  the  ground  with  skulls  was  scattered, 

And  dead  men's  bones,  which  round  about  were  flung, 

Whose  lives  (it  seemed)  whilome  there  were  shed, 

And  their  vile  carcasses  now  left  unburied.’ 

The  train  of  scenery  never  ends.  Guyon  (Temperance)  after  the 
test  of  gold,  is  tried  by  that  of  pleasure.  Side  by  side  with  the 
gloomy  vaults  and  the  swarming  fiends  are  the  happy  gardens: 

‘And  in  the  midst  of  all  a fountain  stood 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  be. 

So  pure  and  shiny  that  the  crystal  flood 
Through  every  channel  running  one  might  see; 

Most  goodly  it  with  curious  imagery 

Was  overwrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boys, 

Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  jollity 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toys, 

Whilst  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid  joys. 

And  over  all,  of  purest  gold  was  spread 
A trail  of  ivy  in  his  native  hue; 

For  the  rich  metal  was  so  colored 
That  he  who  did  not  well  avised  it  view 
Would  surely  deem  it  to  be  ivy  true; 

Low  his  lascivious  arms  adown  did  creep 
That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 
Their  fleecy  flowers  they  tenderly  did  steep, 

Which  drops  of  crystal  seemed  for  wantonness  to  weep. 

Infinite  streams  continually  did  well 
Out  of  this  fountain,  sweet  and  fair  to  see, 

The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell. 

And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantity 
That  like  a little  lake  it  seemed  to  be 
Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits’  height, 

That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see 
All  paved  beneath  with  jasper  shining  bright, 

That  seemed  the  fountain  in  that  sea  did  sail  upright.  . . 

Eftsoones  they  heard  a most  melodious  sound, 

Of  all  that  mote  delight  a dainty  ear, 

Such  as  at  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 

Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere: 

Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear 
To  read  what  manner  music  that  mote  be; 

For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony: 

Birds,  voices,  instruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade. 

Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempered  sweet; 

The  angelical,  soft,  trembling  voices  made 
To  the  instruments  divine  respondence  mete; 

The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water’s  fall; 

The  water’s  fall  with  difference  discreet, 

Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call; 

The  gentle,  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all.’ 


SPENSER. 


365 


Never  was  poetry  more  luxuriant  and  pictorial.  Never  was 
more  of  that  subtler  spirit  of  the  art,  which  painting  can  not 
express  — thoughts  beyond  the  visible  proof  of  the  canvas. 
This  man  was  a colorist  and  an  architect,  equally  of  the  graceful 
and  the  terrible.  Had  he  not  been  himself,  he  wrould  have  been 
a Rubens  or  a Raphael.  Pride,  in  the  throne  chamber  of  her 
palace,  built  over  human  carcasses,  is  thus  described: 

‘So  proud  she  shone  in  her  princely  state, 

Looking  to  heaven,  for  earth  she  did  disdain, 

And  sitting  high,  for  lowly  she  did  hate: 

Lo!  underneath  her  scornful  feet  was  lain 
A dreadful  Dragon  with  an  hideous  train ; 

And  in  her  hand  she  held  a mirror  bright, 

Wherein  her  face  she  often  viewed  fain.’ 


Her  chariot  is  driven  by  Satan,  with  a team  of  beasts  ridden  by 
the  Mortal  Sins,  one  of  whom  is  Gluttony: 

‘His  belly  was  upblown  with  luxury, 

And  eke  with  fatness  swollen  were  his  eyne, 

And  like  a crane  his  neck  was  long  and  fine. 

Wherewith  he  swallowed  up  excessive  feast, 

For  want  whereof  poor  people  oft  did  pine.’ 

And  another  Envy,  than  which  nothing  could  be  finer: 

‘Malicious  Envy  rode 
Upon  a ravenous  wolf,  and  still  did  chaw 
Between  his  cankred  teeth  a venomous  toad, 

That  all  the  poison  ran  about  his  jaw. 

All  in  a kirtle  of  discolored  say 
He  clothed  was  y painted  full  of  eyes , 

And  in  his  bosom  secretly  there  lay 
An  hateful  snake,  the  which  his  tail  upties 
In  many  folds,  and  mortal  sting  implies.’ 

Who  has  ever  approached  the  horror  and  the  truth  of  the  follow- 
ing description  of  the  Captain  of  the  Lusts?  Note  the  various 
images  which  set  forth  the  wasting  away  of  body  and  soul,  the 
coldness  of  the  heart,  consumed  by  unholy  fire,  the  kindling  of 
dire  impatience,  and  the  implanting  of  thorny  ineradicable  griefs: 

‘As  pale  and  wan  as  ashes  was  his  look; 

His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a rake; 

And  skin  all  withered  like  a dried  rook; 

Thereto  as  cold  and  dreary  as  a snake; 

That  seemed  to  tremble  evermore,  and  quake: 

All  in  a canv.as  thin  he  was  bedight , 

And  girded  with  a belt  of  twisted  brake: 

Upon  his  head  he  wore  an  helmet  light 
Made  of  a dead  man’s  skull.’ 


366  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


He  is  mounted  upon  a tiger,  and  in  his  hand  is  a drawn  bow1: 

‘And  many  arrows  under  his  right  side, 

Headed  with  flint,  and  feathers  bloody-dyed.1 

Beyond  the  wondrous  fairy  tale,  far  within  it,  often  escaping  the 
dazzled  eye,  is  an  inner  life,  steadily  beaming  there.  Everything 
is  referred  to  it,  and,  though  still  apprehensible, — 

‘Suffers  a sea- change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange.’ 

He  is  divine  who  instinctively,  in  Bacon’s  phrase,  subordinates 
‘the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind.’  Here  as  in 
Plato,  a sense  of  the  presence  of  the  Deity,  as  the  vital  principle 
in  all  things,  great  or  small,  runs  in  a solemn  undercurrent  be- 
neath the  stream  of  visions.  If  a nymph  is  beautiful,  it  is 
because  she  has  been  touched  with  this  heavenly  light,  with 
these  angels’  tints: 

* Her  face  so  fair,  as  flesh  it  seemed  not, 

But  heavenly  portrait  of  bright  angels’  hue, 

Clear  as  the  sky,  withouten  blame  or  blot. 

Through  goodly  mixture  of  complexion's  dew; 

And  in  her  cheeks  the  vermeil  red  did  show 
Like  roses  in  a bed  of  lilies  shed, 

The  which  ambrosial  odors  from  them  throw. 

And  gazers’  sense  with  double  pleasure  fed, 

Able  to  heal  the  sick  and  to  revive  the  dead. 

In  her  fair  eyes  two  living  lamps  did  flame, 

Kindled  above  at  th’  Heavenly  Maker’s  light, 

And  darted  firie  beams  out  of  the  same, 

So  passing  persant,  and  so  wondrous  bright, 

That  quite  bereav’d  the  rash  beholder’s  sight: 

In  them  the  blinded  god  his  lustful  fire 
To  kindle  oft  assayed,  but  had  no  might; 

For  with  dread  majesty  and  awful  ire. 

She  broke  his  wanton  darts,  and  quenched  base  desire. 

Her  ivory  forehead,  full  of  bounty  brave, 

Like  a broad  table  did  itself  dispread, 

For  Love  his  lofty  triumphs  to  engrave, 

And  write  the  battles  of  his  great  godhead: 

All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  read; 

For  there  their  dwelling  was.  And,  when  she  spake, 

Sweet  words,  like  dropping  honey,  she  did  shed; 

And  ’twixt  the  pearls  and  rubies  softly  brake 
A silver  sound,  that  heavenly  music  seemed  to  make.’ 

As  Dante  was  drawn  up  from  heaven  to  heaven  by  the  eyes  of 
Beatrice,  through  which  he  could  look  into  the  far  Infinite,  so 
was  Spenser  lifted  away  from  the  earthly  by  those  of  that 


SPENSER, 


367 


unique,  imperishable  Beauty  which,  above  all  created  forms,  a 
noble  woman  reveals.  In  holy  rapture  of  Una,  he  exclaims, — 


Again : 


‘O  happy  earth, 

Whereon  thy  innocent  feet  do  ever  tread.’ 

‘As  bright  as  doth  the  morning  star  appear 
Ont  of  the  East,  with  flaming  locks  bedight. 

To  tell  that  dawning  day  is  drawing  near, 

And  to  the  world  does  bring  long- wished  light: 

So  fair  and  fresh  that  Lady  show’d  herself  in  sight.’ 


In  wilderness  and  wasteful  desert,  she  seeks  her  knight,  who  has 
been  beguiled  from  her  by  the  subtle  art  of  the  enchanter: 

‘One  day  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way. 

From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight, 

And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow  far  from  all  men’s  sight: 

From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight 
And  laid  her  stole  aside:  her  angel's  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shined  bright , 

And  made  a sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 

Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly, 

Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood: 

Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 

With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 

To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse; 

But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 

His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse, 

And  with  the  sight  amaz’d,  forgot  his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kiss’d  her  weary  feet, 

And  lick'd  her  lily  hand  with  fawning  tongue; 

As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  meet. 

O how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong. 

And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong!’ 


The  loftiest,  deepest,  most  angelic  element  in  this  genius  is 
reverence  for  woman  — which  is  only  a worship  of  the  supernal 
charm  and  attraction  rendered  visible  in  her.  All  the  wealth 
of  his  respect  and  tenderness  is  poured  out  at  the  feet  of  his 
heroines.  In  his  adoration,  he  lifts  them  up  to  heights  where 
no  mortal  fleck  is  visible.  In  this  exalted  mood  he  sings  of 
his  bride,  in  the  Epithalamion , his  marriage-song: 

‘Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 

Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 

And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks, 

And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  stain 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain: 


368  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair 
The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground. 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a little  thought  unsound. 

Why  blush  ye,  Love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band? 

Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  Allelujah  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echoes  ring ! 1 

Spenser  made  many  miscellaneous  attempts  in  sonnets,  pastorals, 
elegies,  and  hymns,  all  fairy-like  or  mystic,  all  stamped  with  the 
ruling  idea,  and  all  striving  to  express  it, — moral  sublimity  and 
sensuous  seduction. 

Versification. — Spenser  came  to  the  Fairy  Queen  with  his 
head  full  of  Ariosto  and  the  romantic  poets  of  Italy.  His  exqui- 
site ear  had  felt  the  melody  of  their  heroic  metre  — the  ottava 
rim, a,  to  which  he  added  a grace  of  his  own,  the  Alexandrine. 
The  order  of  rhymes,  it  will  be  observed,  is:  1,  3;  2,  4,  5,  7;  6, 
8,  9.  This  gave  to  his  stanza  a fuller  cadence,  ‘the  long,  majestic 
march,’  well  suited  to  the  sober  sublimity  of  his  genius. 

Style  . — Luxuriant  and  spacious,  yet  simple  and  clear;  seldom 
rivalled  in  the  charm  of  its  diffusion,  the  orient  flush  of  its  diction, 
and  the  music  of  its  recurrent  chimes.  Many  passages,  it  may 
be  needless  to  observe,  are  beautifully  harmonious,  combining  a 
subtle  perfection  of  phrase  with  a happy  coalescence  of  meaning 
and  melody.  The  last,  indeed,  is  often  an  essential  part  of  the 
sentiment ; and,  with  ‘ many  a bout  of  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,’  lures  the  thought  along  its  pleasant  paths.  The 
modulation  is  made  spirited  and  energetic  by  the  variety  of 
pauses.  There  is  no  slumberous  monotony  in  these  lines: 

'■But  lie  my  lion , and  my  noble  lord , 

How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 

Her  that  him  lov’d,  and  ev‘er  most  ador’d 

As  the  God  of  my  life?  Why  hath  he  me  abhorr’d?’ 

Nor  any  languor  in  this: 

‘Come  hither,  come  hither,  oh,  come  hastily!1 
Spenser’s  language,  of  one  substance  with  the  splendor  of  his 
fancy,  would  seem  to  have  been  chosen  rather  for  its  richness  of 


SPENSER. 


369 


tone  than  for  its  intensity  of  meaning.  Like  all  masters  of 
speech,  he  is  fond  of  toying  with  it  a little.  Sometimes  his 
alliteration  is  tempted  to  excess;  as, — 

‘Eftsoones  her  shallow  ship  away  did  slide, 

More  swift  than  swallow  shears  the  liquid  sky.’ 

Generally,  however,  the  initial  assonances  are  scattered  at  adroit 
intervals,  rarely  obtrusive,  but  responsive  to  the  idea.  For  in- 
stance: 

‘In  woods,  in  waves,  in  wars,  she  wonts  to  dw'ell; 

And  will  be  found  with  peril  and  with  pain.1 

Or,— 

‘A  world  of  waters, 

Horrible,  hideous,  roaring  with  hoarse  cry.1 

Or,— 

‘All  the  day,  before  the  sunny  rays, 

He  used  to  slug  or  sleep,  in  slothful  shade.1 

Rank. — There  had  been  much  poetry,  and  not  a little  poet- 
ical power,  since  Chaucer;  but  the  Fairy  Queen  was  the  first 
production  that  might  challenge  comparison  with  the  Canter- 
bury Tales.  It  was  received  with  a burst  of  general  welcome. 
The  ‘new  poet’  became  almost  the  recognized  title  of  its  author. 
It  portrayed,  indeed,  the  wonder  and  mystery  of  the  new  life, 
the  incongruous  life  of  the  Renaissance,  moulding  into  harmoni- 
ous form  its  warring  ideals  and  contrasted  impulses.  All  the 
past,  with  its  imagery,  its  illusion,  its  glory, — and  the  present, 
with  its  rough  romantic  beauties  and  gorgeous  pageantry, — de- 
scended upon  the  Fairy  of  Spenser,  and,  in  the  mellow  light  of 
his  imagination,  lost  the  passion  of  conflict,  the  grossness  of  lust, 
and  the  tarnish  of  physical  contact. 

His  invention  was  extraordinary,  and  its  mode  unique.  Shape 
after  shape,  scene  after  scene,  monstrous  and  anomalous,  or  im- 
possible and  beautiful,  rose  from  the  unfathomable  depths,  to 
embody  some  shade  of  emotion  or  an  idea;  while,  in  the  midst 
of  the  rising  and  commingling  visions,  he  was  unperturbed  and 
serene,  never  hurrying,  rarely  if  ever  passionate.  Next  to 
Dante  among  the  Italians,  next  to  Virgil  among  the  ancients, 
Milton  surpasses  him  in  the  severity  of  his  greatness,  Shake- 
speare in  the  sweep  and  condensation  of  his  power.  Daring 
elevations,  when  they  occur,  indicate  the  strength  of  his  genius 
rather  than  the  habit  of  his  mind.  He  lacked  executive  effi- 
ciency,—the  coordinating,  centralizing  quality  of  the  highest 
24 


370  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


order  of  imagination.  But  grandeur,  intensity,  and  reflection 
aside,  he  is  the  most  purely  poetical  of  our  writers.  In  the  union 
of  musical  expression,  fanciful  conception  of  thought,  and  the 
exquisite  sense  of  beauty,  he  excels  them  all.  Eminent  in  wis- 
dom, like  every  other  greatest  poet,  he  is  also  the  finest  dreamer 
that  ever  lived,  and,  as  such,  is  the  inheritance  of  all  future  gen- 
erations. He  repels  none  but  the  anti-poetical.  His  ‘better 
parts’  will  ever  interest  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful,  unchange- 
able amid  the  changes  of  taste,  as  long  as  riches  are  sought  in 
the  regions  of  the  unknown. 

Character. — Magnificently  imaginative.  Captivated  with 
beauty;  above  all,  with  beauty  of  soul,  which  is  the  source  of 
all  outward  charms, — 

‘For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take; 

For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make.' 

The  true  glory  of  all  material  things  is  in  the  immortal  idea 
which  irradiates  them;  and  they  are  lovable  only  as  they  are 
rendered  thus  nobly  luminous: 

‘For  that  same  goodly  hue  of  white  and  red, 

With  which  the  cheeks  are  sprinkled,  shall  decay; 

And  those  sweet  rosy  leaves,  so  fairly  spread 
Upon  the  lips,  shall  fade  and  fall  away 
To  that  they  were,  even  to  corrupted  clay: 

That  golden  wire,  those  sparkling  eyes  so  bright, 

Shall  turn  to  dust  and  lose  their  goodly  light. 

But  that  fair  lamp,  from  whose  celestial  ray 
That  light  proceeds,  which  kindleth  lover's  fire, 

Shall  never  be  extinguished  nor  decay; 

But,  when  the  vital  spirits  do  expire, 

Upon  her  native  planet  shall  retire; 

For  it  is  heavenly  born,  and  cannot  die, 

Being  a parcel  of  the  purest  sky.’ 

The  seen  is  but  the  semblance;  the  unseen  is  the  reality,  ever 
fairer  as  you  ascend  the  graduated  scale.  Ineffably  fair  is  the 
spirit’s  dim  but  still  enraptured  vision  of  the  absolute  Beauty  — 
God,  who,  in  the  objects  of  sense, — 

‘Daily  doth  display 

And  shew  Himself  in  th’  image  of  His  grace. 

As  in  a looking-glass  through  which  He  may 
Be  seen  of  all  His  creatures  vile  and  base, 

That  are  unable  else  to  see  His  face.’ 

This  is  eminently  Platonic.  The  bent  of  his  mind  was  ever  thus 
toward  a supermundane  sphere,  in  whose  untrammelled  ether  it 


SPENSER. 


371 


might  expatiate  freely,  joyously.  To  this  sublime  summit  he 
carried  everything,  and  thus  subtleized  everything  at  a touch. 
Where  most  men  see  only  the  perishable  form  and  color  of  the 
thing,  he  saw  the  joy  of  it,  the  soul  of  eternal  youth  that  is  in 
it.  Yetj  with  a purity  like  that  of  driven  snow,  he  had  no  lack 
of  warmth.  He  is,  of  all  our  poets,  the  most  truly  sensuous; 
but  so  chaste  and  ardent,  that  when  he  painted  sentiment  and 
passion,  or  material  loveliness,  he  could  not  but  make  them  ‘of 
glorious  feature.’ 

Such  a one  does  not  wait  to  get  into  the  next  stage  of  exist- 
ence to  begin  to  enter  it.  He  sees  that  the  Infinite  Life  is  the 
world  of  essence;  that  it  is  the  meaning  which  glows  through  all 
matter;  that  out  of  it  flows  all  goodness,  all  truth,  all  enduring- 
happiness  on  this  side  of  the  grave: 

‘And  is  there  care  in  Heaven?  and  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 

That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move? 

There  is:  else  much  more  wretched  were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts:  but  O,  the  exceeding" grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  His  creatures  so, 

And  all  His  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 

That  blessed  angels  He  sends  to  and  fro, 

To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  His  wicked  foe ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave. 

To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor  want! 

How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 
The  fleeting  skies  like  flying  pursuivant, 

Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant! 

They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  duly  ward, 

And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant; 

And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward; 

O,  why  should  heavenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard?1 

Thus  it  is  that,  while  he  himself  was  outwardly  vexed  with  dis- 
content, fretted  with  neglect,  his  poetry  breathes  the  very  soul 
of  contentment  and  cheer.  It  is  not  the  gladness  of  mirth,  but 
the  deep  satisfaction  of  the  seer;  for  to  such  as  have  gained  the 
point  of  changeless  being,  beyond  the  changing  and  phenome- 
nal,— 

‘Their  joy,  their  comfort,  their  desire,  their  gain. 

Is. fixed  all  on  that  which  now  they  see; 

All  other  sights  but  fained  shadows  be.1 

Sensitive,  tender,  grateful,  devout,  learned,  wise,  and  introspect- 
ive, with  ‘the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine,’  his  own  words  are 
applicable  to  him: 


372  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


‘The  noble  heart  that  harbors  virtuous  thought 
And  is  with  child  of  glorious-great  intent, 

Can  never  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
The  eternal  brood  of  glory  excellent.’ 

Influence. — He  threw  into  English  verse  the  soul  of  har- 
mony, and  made  it  more  expansive,  more  richly  descriptive,  than 
it  ever  was  before.  More  than  any  other,  by  his  ideal  method  of 
treatment,  and  the  splendor  of  his  fancy,  he  contributed  to  the 
transformation  of  style  and  language.  One  so  largely  and  so 
ardently  admired,  must  have  had  many  imitators.  Browne  and 
the  two  Fletchers  were  his  professed  disciples.  Cowley  said 
that  he  became  ‘ irrevocably  a poet  ’ by  reading  him  when  a boy. 
Gray  was  accustomed  to  open  him  when  he  would  frame  — 
‘Thoughts  that  breathe,  aud  words  that  burn.’ 

Wordsworth,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  show  traces  of  him. 
Thomson  wrote  the  most  delightful  of  his  own  poems  in  his 
stanza.  Dryden  claimed  him  for  a master.  Milton  called  him 
‘our  sage  and  serious  poet,  whom  I dare  be  known  to  think  a 
better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas .’  How  so?  Because  he 
revealed,  in  lowly  aspect,  the  ideal  point  of  view;  gave  to  souls 
a consciousness  of  their  wings;  sowed  in  them  the  seeds  of  a 
noble  discontent  with  prosaic  views  of  life;  fastened  the  atten- 
tion upon  necessary  uncreated  natures  — Ideas,  into  whose  divine 
atmosphere  no  man  can  be  lifted,  without  becoming,  in  some 
degree,  himself  divine.  This  is  the  inestimable  value  of  such  a 
character, — that  he  forms  a standing  protest  against  the  tyranny 
of  commonplace,  against  the  limitary  tone  of  English  thought, 
enslaved  to  the  five  mechanic  powers.  He  and  his  culture  are 
needed  to  withstand  the  encroachments  of  artificial  manners,  to 
counteract  the  materializing  tendencies  of  physical  science,  to 
sway  and  purify  the  energies  that  are  too  much  confined  to  gain 
and  pleasure  and  show.  The  end  of  a moral  being  is,  not  food 
or  raiment  or  estate,  but  soul-expansion;  and  the  parent  of  all 
noblest  improvement  is  love  — the  outflow  of  desire  toward  the 
true,  beautiful,  and  good,  which  exists  in  thought,  action,  or  per- 
son, not  our  own.  Whoever  acts  admirably  upon  the  imagina- 
tion, administers  to  this  effect.  Whoever  gives  the  world  a pic- 
torial air,  contributes  to  our  emancipation.  Whoever  makes  us 
more  intensely  and  comprehensively  imaginative,  exalts  us  into 
the  possession  of  incorruptible  goods.  In  vain  will  philosophy 


THE  THOUSAND-SOULED. 


373 


and  fashion  and  utilitarianism  oppose  such  a one.  They  fare  as 
servants;  he  is  sought  after,  and  entertained  as  an  angel.  The 
ages  esteem  visions  more  than  bread.  Centuries  hence,  men  will 
be  touched — the  more  powerfully,  the  more  they  are  advanced — 
by  this  artist  and  his  art.  His  is  the  ceaseless  fertility  of  the 
great  Mother,  the  universal  Love  which  was  the  prayer  of  his 
life,  of  which  all  loves  are  but  the  frail  and  fleeting  blossoms: 

‘So  all  the  world  by  thee  at  first  was  made, 

And  dayly  yet  thou  doest  the  same  repayre; 

Ne  ought  on  earth  that  merry  is  and  glad, 

Ne  ought  on  earth  that  lovely  is  and  fayre, 

But  thou  the  same  for  pleasure  didst  prepayre: 

Thou  art  the  root  of  all  that  joyous  is: 

Great  God  of  men  and  women,  queene  of  th’  ayre, 

Mother  of  laughter,  and  welspring  of  blisse, 

O graunt  that  of  my  love  at  last  I may  not  missel’ 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Mellifluous  Shakespeare. — Heywood. 

The  thousand- souled. — Coleridge. 

His  thoughts,  passions,  feelings,  strains  of  fancy,  all  are  of  this  day  as  they  were  of 
his  own ; and  his  genius  may  be  contemporary  with  the  mind  of  every  generation  for  a 
thousand  years  to  come. — Prof.  Wilson. 

Biography. — Born  ill  Stratford,  in  1564;  removed  from  school 
at  an  early  age  by  the  reverses  of  his  father,  once  a prosperous 
tradesman  and  official,  now  on  the  verge  of  ruin;  applied  himself, 
in  a desultory  manner,  to  business;  to  keep  up  the  reputation  of 
his  little  town,  took  part  in  scrapes  and  frolics;  at  eighteen,  mar- 
ried a farmer’s  daughter,  Anne  Hathaway,  aged  twenty-six,  to 
whom  he  was  to  bequeath  only  his  ‘ second  best  bed  with  furni- 
tftire’;  quit  home  for  London,  fell  into  theatrical  society,  and 
became  an  actor  and  a playwright,  serving  an  apprenticeship  in 
the  revision  of  dramas  ; six  years  later,  was  applauded  by  the 
gifted  and  the  noble;  added  to  the  trades  of  player  and  author 
those  of  manager  and  director  of  a theatre;  acquired  shares  in 
the  Blackfriars  and  the  Globe;  invested  in  land,  farmed  tithes, 
bought  the  finest  house  in  Stratford,  where  his  wife  and  three 
children  continued  to  live;  finally  retired  to  his  native  village, 


374  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


like  a country  gentleman  and  a landlord  with  a good  rent-roll; 
wrote  for  the  stage,  took  an  active  interest  in  the  public  welfare, 
made  an  occasional  visit  to  the  metropolis,  lent  money,  managed 
his  fortune,  lived  like  a cheerful  shop-keeper,  and,  without  the 
care  or  the  time  to  collect  and  publish  his  works,  died  on  the 
anniversary  of  his  birth-day,  April  23,  1616. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  projected  himself  into  all  the  varieties  of 
human  character ; had  mingled  with  men  of  vigorous  limbs, 
strong  appetites,  impetuous  passions,  and  keen  intellect ; had 
felt  the  fascinations  of  the  stormy  and  irregular  Marlowe;  in  the 
company  of  fashionable  young  nobles,  had  fed  his  senses  on 
examples  of  Italian  pleasures  and  elegances;  had  tasted  misery, 
felt  the  thorn  of  care  and  discredit;  had  seen  himself  under- 
valued, named,  along  with  Burbage  and  Greene,  as  one  of  ‘His 
Majesty’s  poor  players’;  had  said  in  the  bitterness  of  humilia- 
tion: 

‘Alas,  ’tis  true  I liave  gone  here  and  there. 

And  made  myself  a motley  to  the  view, 

Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear.' 

And  again: 

‘When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men’s  eyes, 

I all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed. 

Desiring  this  man’s  art,  and  that  man’s  scope. 

With  what  I most  enjoy  contented  least; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 

Happily  I think  on  thee,— and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven’s  gate; 

For  thy  sweet  love  remembred,  such  wealth  brings. 

That  then  I scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings.’ 

One  of  his  daughters  married  a physician,  the  other  a wine  mer- 
chant. The  second  could  not  write  her  name.  His  only  son, 
Hamnet,  died  when  eleven  years  of  age.  So  few  are  the 
recorded  incidents  in  the  outward  career  of  the  best  head  in  the 
universe.  Like  Plato,  he  drew  up  the  ladder  after  him;  and 
the  new  age  has  sought  in  vain  for  a history  of  his  house-and- 
street  life.  His  biography,  like  Plato’s,  is  internal;  and  the 
psychologist  sheds  the  light  of  which  the  antiquary  despairs, 
which  it  most  imports  us  to  have. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


375 


Writings. — The  poems  of  Shakespeare  are  Venus  and  Ado- 
nis, Lucrece , The  Passionate  Pilgrim , and  Sonnets.  His  plays, 
to  several  of  which  his  title  is  disputed,  are  in  number  thirty- 
seven,  and,  according  to  the  sources  from  which  the  dramatist 
drew  his  materials,  may  be  grouped  as, — 


1.  Historical. 


DRAMAS, 

Henry  VI,  Part  I, 

Tragedy , 

SOURCES. 

Denied;  attributed  to  Marlowe. 

Henry  VI,  Part  11, 

44 

Older  play. 

Henry  VI,  Part  III, 

Older  play. 

Richard  II, 

44 

Holinshed’s  Chronicles . 

Richard  III, 

More’s  History. 

King  John, 

44 

Older  play. 

Henry  IV,  Part  I, 

44 

Older  play. 

Henry  IV,  Part  II, 

44 

Older  play. 

Henry  V, 

44 

Older  play. 

Henry  VIII, 

44 

Chronicles  of  Hall  and  Holinshed. 

2. 

Semi-historical. 

Titus  Andronicus, 

Tragedy, 

Perhaps  by  Marlowe. 

Hamlet, 

(i 

Saxo’s  Chronicle  of  Scandinavia. 

King  Lear, 

u 

Holinshed. 

Macbeth, 

“ 

Holinshed’s  Scotland. 

Julius  Caesar, 

Plutarch’s  Lives. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra, 

“ 

Plutarch’s  Lives. 

CORIOLANUS, 

Plutarch’s  Lives. 

Cymbeline, 

Comedy  (?) 

Holinshed  and  Boccaccio. 

3 

Love's  Labor  Lost, 

. Fictional. 

Comedy , 

Italian  play. 

Comedy  op  Errors, 

“ 

Plautus. 

Two  Gentlemen  op  Verona, 

“ 

An  old  romance. 

Midsummer’s  Night’s  Dream, 

Chaucer. 

Merchant  op  Venice, 

“ 

Gesta  Romanorum. 

Romeo  and  Juliet, 

Tragedy, 

Boccaccio. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 

Comedy, 

Italian  romance. 

Twelfth  Night, 

“ 

Italian  romance. 

As  You  Like  It, 

“ 

Lodge’s  Romance. 

Taming  op  the  Shrew, 

“ 

Older  play. 

Pericles, 

“ 

Gower. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
Measure  for  Measure, 

44 

44 

Old  tale. 

All’s  Well  that  Ends  Well, 

“ 

Boccaccio. 

Timon  of  Athens, 

Tragedy, 

Plutarch  and  others. 

Othello, 

“ 

Old  tale. 

Troilus  and  Cressida, 

Comedy, 

Chaucer. 

Winter’s  Tale, 

44 

Greene. 

Tempest, 

44 

Italian  romance. 

In  these  performances,  he  exhausts  all  human  experience,  and 
imagines  more]  searches  the  heart,  lays  bare  its  strength  and 


376  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD— REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


weakness,  its  excesses  and  its  rages;  divines  the  secret  impulses 
of  humanity;  depicts  all  manners  and  conditions,  high  and  low, 
such  as  the  world  will  always  find;  shines,  like  the  sun,  on  the 
evil  and  the  good;  runs  without  effort  the  round  of  human  ideas, 
records  his  convictions  on  the  questions  that  knock  at  the  gate 
of  every  brain,  on  life,  love,  trial,  death,  immortality,  freedom, 
fate, — the  ends  of  existence  and  the  means.  In  so  vast  a field, 
we  must  select.  Nor,  amid  so  many  portraitures,  in  so  great 
variety  of  moods,  in  such  profusion  of  sentiments,  can  the  critic 
choose  more  than  fragments,  entreating  the  reader  to  divine  the 
rest.  The  importance  of  this  wisdom  and  this  beauty  sinks 
form,  chronology,  analytic  completeness,  out  of  notice. 

Nowhere  is  the  wonderful  range  of  power  more  visible  than  in 
the  varied  types  of  female  characters.  Some  are  but  babblers, — 
each  the  representative  of  a species;  vulgar  minds  that  forget  and 
spare  nothing,  ignorant  that  conversation  is  but  a selection,  that 
every  story  is  subject  to  the  laws  of  dramatic  poetry, — festincit 
ad  eventum.  Thus  Mrs.  Quickly  reminds  Falstaff  of  his  promise 
of  marriage: 

‘Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin-chamber,  at 
the  round  table,  by  a sea- coal  fire,  upon  Wednesday  in  Whitsun  week,  when  the  prince 
broke  thy  head  for  liking  his  father  to  a singing-man  of  Windsor,  thou  didst  swear  to  me 
then,  as  I was  washing  thy  wound,  to  marry  me  and  make  me  my  lady  thy  wife.  Canst 
thou  deny  it?  Did  not  goodwife  Keech,  the  butcher's  wife,  come  in  then  and  call  me 
gossip  Quickly?  coming  in  to  borrow  a mess  of  vinegar;  telling  us  she  had  a good  dish 
of  prawns;  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to  eat  some.'1 

She  is  held  in  thraldom  to  the  order  and  circumstances  in  which 
her  perceptions  were  originally  acquired.  Better  still  is  the 
example  of  the  nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet , a never-ending 
gossip,  smelling  of  the  kitchen,  impudent,  immoral,  but  faithful 
and  affectionate  like  a dog.  The  involuntary  associations  of  her 
thoughts  are  imperative.  She  would  advance,  but  repeats  her 
steps;  or,  struck  with  an  image,  wanders  from  the  point.  She 
brings  Juliet  news  of  her  lover: 

‘ Nurse.  I am  aweary,  give  me  leave  awhile: 

Fie,  how  my  bones  ache!  what  a jaunt  have  I had! 

Jul.  I would  thou  hadst  my  bones  and  I thy  news. 

Nay,  come,  I pray  thee,  speak;  good,  good  nurse,  speak. 

Nurse.  Jesu,  what  haste?  can  you  not  stay  awhile? 

Do  you  not  see  that  I am  out  of  breath? 

Jul.  How  art  thou  out  of  breath  when  thou  hast  breath 
To  say  to  me  that  thou  art  out  of  breath? 


1 Henry  IV,  Part  II. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


377 


The  excuse  that  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay 
Is  longer  than  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 

Is  thy  news  good  or  bad?  answer  to  that; 

Say  either,  and  I'll  stay  the  circumstance: 

Let  me  be  satisfied,  is't  good  or  bad? 

Nurse.  Well,  you  have  made  a simple  choice;  you  know  not  how  to  choose  a man: 
Romeo!  no,  not  he;  though  his  face  be  better  than  any  man’s,  yet  his  leg  excels  all 
men's;  and  for  a hand,  and  a foot,  and  a body,  though  they  be  not  to  be  talked  on,  yet 
they  are  past  compare:  he  is  not  the  flower  of  courtesy,  but,  I’ll  warrant  him,  as  gentle 
as  a lamb.  Go  thy  ways,  wench:  serve  God.  What,  have  you  dined  at  home? 

Jul.  No,  no:  but  all  this  did  I know  before. 

What  says  he  of  our  marriage?  what  of  that? 

Nurse.  Lord,  how  my  head  aches ! what  a head  have  I ! 

It  beats  as  it  would  fall  in  twenty  pieces. 

My  back  o’  t’other  side,— O,  my  back,  my  back! 

Beshrew  your  heart  for  sending  me  about, 

To  catch  my  death  with  jaunting  up  and  down! 

Jul.  I’faith,  I am  sorry  that  thou  art  not  well. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says  my  love? 

Nurse.  Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentleman,  and  a courteous,  aud  a kind,  and 
a handsome,  and,  I warrant,  a virtuous,— Where  is  your  mother? 

Jul.  Where  is  my  mother!  why,  she  is  within; 

Where  should  she  be?  How  oddly  thou  repliest! 

“Your  love  says,  like  an  honest  gentleman, 

Where  is  your  mother?”’ 

But  his  heroines  are  of  finer  mould.  They  are  the  possible  of  the 
female  mind,  seen,  for  the  first  time,  as  in  a dream,  yet  — unlike 
Spenser’s  — warm  breathing  realities.  They  are  all  charming  or 
fascinating.  Rosalind,  sprightly  but  modest,  coquettish  and 
voluble,  like  a warbling  and  pretty  bird,  her  tongue  running 
‘With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning.’ 

When  Orlando  promises  to  love  her  ‘for  ever  and  a day,’  she 
says,  with  pretended  cruelty: 

‘Say  a day  without  the  ever,  no,  no,  Orlando,  men  are  April  when  they  woo,  Decem- 
ber when  they  wed;  maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when 
they  are  wives:  I will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen : 
more  clamorous  than  a parrot  against  rain ; more  new-fangled  than  an  ape ; more  giddy 
in  my  desires  than  a monkey;  I will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I 
will  do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry ; I will  laugh  like  a hyen,  and  that  when 
you  are  inclined  to  sleep.’ 

‘But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so?’ — ‘By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I do.’ 
Or,  ‘What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I were  your  very,  very 
Rosalind?’  Miranda,  whose  soul  shines  upon  Ferdinand  through 
her  innocent  eyes,  and  he  asks  in  a rapture  of  wonder: 

‘I  do  beseech  you 

(Chiefly  that  I might  set  it  in  my  prayers) 

What  is  your  name?’1 


1 Tempest. 


378  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Imogen,  the  most  artless  of  all, — 

‘So  tender  of  rebukes  that  words  are  strokes, 

And  strokes  death  to  her.’ 

Accused  of  inconstancy  by  her  husband,  and  discarded,  she  dis- 
guises herself  in  order  to  be  near  him;  finds,  as  she  thinks,  his 
dead  body,  and  refuses  to  quit  the  spot  till  — 

‘With  wild-wood  leaves  and  weeds,  I ha’  strew'd  his  grave. 

And  on  it  said  a century  of  prayers.'1 

Jachimo,  dared  by  her  husband  to  make  trial  of  her  fidelity,  hides 
in  her  chamber  in  order  to  bring  away  pretended  proofs  against 
it.  He  notes  the  furniture,  removes  her  bracelet,  soliloquizing: 

‘ Fresh  lily , 

And  whiter  than  the  sheets!  that  I might  touch! 

But  kiss;  one  kiss!  . . . 

' Tis  her  breathing  that 

Perfumes  the  chamber  thus : —the  flame  o’  the  taper 
Bows  towards  her;  and  would  under-peep  her  lids , 

To  see  the  enclosed  lights , now  canopied 
Under  those  windows , white  and  azure , lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tint.' 

Desdemona,  guileless  victim  of  a foul  conspiracy, — 

‘A  maiden  never  bold: 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 
Blushed  at  itself.’2 

Cleopatra,  voluptuous,  ostentatious,  haughty,  dazzling,  child  of 
air  and  fire: 

‘The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a burnished  throne, 

Burnt  on  the  water;  the  poop  was  beaten  gold, 

Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed,  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick.'3 

What  a picture ! — 

‘Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety.  Other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.’ 

Cordelia,  whose  hallowed  tears  are  — 

‘The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes.'4 

When  her  father,  aged,  irritable,  half  insane,  asks  her  how  she 
loves  him,  she  cannot  protest,  is  ashamed  to  parade  her  tender- 
ness, as  her  sisters  have  done,  in  order  to  buy  a dowry  by  it;  is 
disinherited,  expelled;  afterwards,  when  she  finds  him  forsaken 

1 Cymbeline.  1 Othello.  3 Antony  and  Cleopatra.  * Lear. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


379 


and  mad,  goes  on  her  knees  before  him,  caresses  him,  weeps  over 
him,  prays  for  him: 

‘0  you  kind  gods, 

Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature! 

The  untuned  and  jarring  senses.  O,  wind  up 
Of  this  child-changed  father!  . . . 

O my  dear  father!  Restoration,  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made!  . . . Was  this  a face 
To  be  opposed  against  the  warring  winds?  . . . 

Mine  enemy’s  dog, 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
Against  my  fire.  . . . 

How  does  my  royal  lord?  How  fares  your  majesty?’ 

Ophelia,  sincere  and  constant,  feeling  deeply  but  saying  little, 
and  that  quietly;  delighted  when  she  discovers  that  her  love  is 
reciprocated,  yet  chary  of  her  words;  separated  from  her  lover, 
yet  bearing  her  cruel  fortune  patiently;  singing  herself  to  rest, 
when  reason  is  dethroned.  What  can  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  words  of  the  Queen  on  throwing  flowers  into  her  grave  ? — 
‘Sweets  to  the  sweet,  farewell.’1 

A true  Northener.  Juliet,  deep  though  easily  moved,  constant 
though  ecstatic,  pure  though  impulsive,  uniting  sweetness  and 
dignity  of  manners  with  passionate  violence.  When  Romeo  first 
sees  her,  in  the  midst  of  elegance  and  splendor,  he  inquires: 

‘What  lady’s  that  which  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight?  . . . 

0 she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright. 

Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night, 

Like  a rich  jewel  in  an  JEthiop’s  ear.’ 

She  is  overcome  by  the  pressure  at  her  heart,  and  apologizes 
thus  for  her  maiden  boldness: 

‘O  gentle  Romeo, 

If  thou  dost  love  pronounce  it  faithfully; 

Or  if  thou  think  I am  too  quickly  won 
I’ll  frown  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 

So  thou  wilt  woo:  but  else  not  for  the  world. 

In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I am  too  fond; 

And  therefore  thou  may’st  think  my  ’havior  light; 

But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I’ll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 

1 should  have  been  more  strange,  I must  confess. 

But  that  thou  over-heard’ st,  ere  I was  ware, 

My  true  love’s  passion;  therefore,  pardon  me, 

And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 

Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered.’ 


Hamlet. 


380  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Of  the  same  sort  — heart  fluttering  ever  between  pleasure,  hope, 
and  fear  — is  the  soliloquy  after  marriage: 

‘Come,  Romeo!  come,  thou  day  in  night; 

For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 
Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a raven’s  back.  . . . 

Come,  gentle  night;  come,  loving,  black-brow’d  night, 

Give  me  my  Romeo:  and  when  he  shall  die, 

Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars, 

And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine, 

That  all  the  world  shall  be  in  love  with  night, 

And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun.’ 

This  is  the  true  Southerner.  Lady  Macbeth,  finally,  than  whom 
nothing  could  be  more  fearful  and  appalling;  ambitious,  com- 
manding, inexorable,  never  to  be  diverted  from  a wicked  pur- 
pose, when  once  formed.  One  obstacle  stands  between  her  family 
and  a throne  — Duncan;  and  on  hearing  of  his  fatal  entrance 
under  her  battlements,  she  exclaims: 

‘ Come,  you  spirits 

That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here: 

And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  th’  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty;  make  thick  my  blood, 

Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse, 

That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it.  Come  to  my  woman's  breasts. 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murthering  ministers, 

Whenever  in  your  sightless  substances 

You  wait  on  nature’s  mischief.  Come,  thick  night! 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 

That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 

Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 

To  cry,  hold,  hold ! ’ 

If  you  seek  the  passions  of  an  animal  and  the  imagination  of 
a man  of  wit,  you  will  find  them  exemplified  in  Falstaff,  profane, 
dissolute,  corpulent,  voluble,  and  jolly;  a jester,  a drunkard,  and 
a glutton,  who  sleeps  among  tavern  jugs,  and  wakes  to  brag,  lie, 
and  steal.  Yet  he  does  not  offend  you,  he  delights  you.  He  is 
himself  openly,  without  malice  or  hypocrisy.  He  says  to  the 
prince,  who  berates  him: 

‘Dost  thou  hear,  Hal?  thou  knowest  in  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell;  and  what 
should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of  villainy?  Thou  seest  I have  more  flesh  than 
another  man,  and  therefore  more  frailty.’1 

He  is  an  Epicurean  systematically,  and,  though  a coward,  pulls 
out  his  bottle  on  the  field  of  battle  to  show  his  contempt  for 
glory  and  danger.  He  is  never  at  a loss,  and  devises  a shift  on 

1 Henry  7F,  Part  /. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


381 


every  occasion,  at  a moment’s  warning,  with  monumental  impu- 
dence. Arrested  for  an  old  debt  by  Mrs.  Quickly,  he  persuades 
her  to  pawn  her  plate  to  lend  him  ten  pounds  more.  Insults, 
oaths,  and  boastings  flow  from  him  naturally,  unceasingly,  in 
geometrical  progression.  He  pretends  to  have  encountered  two 
robbers, — has  fought  them  alone;  and  presently,  as  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  own  valor  increases  with  the  narrative,  the  number  is 
four,  then  eleven,  then  fourteen.  He  is  always  good-natured, 
unconquerably  self-possessed.  Exposed  or  insulted,  he  laughs, 
retorts  in  coarse  words,  but  owes  no  grudge.  4 Gallants,  lads, 
boys,  hearts  of  gold.’  ‘What,  shall  we  be  merry?’  A frank, 
embossed  rascal,  without  thought  of  being  just  or  unjust.  If  his 
vices  gratify  himself,  they  amuse  others,  without  infecting  them. 
Here  he  is,  embodied  and  palpable: 

‘ Fal.  Bardolph,  am  I not  fallen  away  vilely  since  this  last  action?  do  I not  bate?  do 
I not  dwindle?  Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  me  like  an  old  lady's  loose  gown;  I am  with- 
ered like  an  old  apple-john.  Well,  I’ll  repent,  and  that  suddenly,  while  I am  in  some 
liking ; I shall  be  out  of  heart  shortly,  and  then  I shall  have  no  strength  to  repent.  An  I 
have  not  forgotten  what  the  inside  of  a church  is  made  of,  I am  a peppercorn,  a brewer's 
horse:  the  inside  of  a church!  Company,  villanous  company,  hath  been  the  spoil  of  me. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  you  are  so  fretful,  you  cannot  live  long. 

Fal.  Why,  there  is  it:  come  sing  me  a bawdy  song;  make  me  merry.  I was  as  vir- 
tuously given  as  a gentleman  need  to  be ; virtuous  enough ; swore  little ; diced  not  above 
seven  times  a week;  went  to  a bawdy-house  not  above  once  in  a quarter  — of  an  hour;, 
paid  money  that  I borrowed,  three  or  four  times;  lived  well  and  in  good  compass:  and! 
now  I live  out  of  all  order,  out  of  all  compass. 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fat,  Sir  John,  that  you  must  needs  be  out  of  all  compass,  out 
of  all  reasonable  compass,  Sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I’ll  amend  my  life:  thou  art  our  admiral,  thou 
bearest  the  lantern  in  the  poop,  but  'tis  in  the  nose  of  thee ; thou  art  the  Knight  of  the 
Burning  Lamp. 

Bard.  Why,  Sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no  harm. 

Fal.  No,  I’ll  be  sworn;  I make  as  good  use  of  it  as  many  a man  doth  of  Death's- 
head  or  a memento  mori:  I never  see  thy  face  but  I think  upon  hell-fire  and  Dives  that 
lived  in  purple;  for  there  he  is  in  his  robes,  burning,  burning.  If  thou  wert  any  way- 
given  to  virtue,  I would  swear  by  thy  face;  my  oath  should  be  “By  this  fire,  that's  God's- 
angel:”  but  thou  art  altogether  given  over;  and  wert  indeed,  but  for  the  light  in  thy 
face,  the  son  of  utter  darkness.  When  thou  rannest  up  Gad’s-hill  in  the  night  to  catch 
my  horse,  if  I did  not  think  thou  hadst  been  an  ignis  fatuus  or  a ball  of  wildfire,  there's* 
no  purchase  in  money.  O,  thou  art  a perpetual  triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire-light ! 
Thou  hast  saved  me  a thousand  marks  in  links  and  torches,  walking  with  thee  in  the 
night  betwixt  tavern  and  tavern.  . . . 

Bard.  ’Sblood,  I would  my  face  were  in  your  belly! 

Fal.  God-a-mercy!  so  should  I be  sure  to  be  heart-burned.’ 

An  acute  head  and  a calloused  heart,  with  a deliberate  and 
absorbing  preference  of  evil,  constitute  the  perfect  villain.  Iago 
is  a demon  in  human  form;  a trooper  and  a hypocrite,  with  the 
philosophy  of  a cynic,  the  maxims  of  a detective,  and  the  spirit 


382  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


of  an  assassin.  ‘O  my  reputation,  my  reputation!’  cries  the  dis- 
graced Cassio.  ‘ As  I am  an  honest  man,’  says  Iago,  ‘ I thought 
you  had  received  some  bodily  wound;  there  is  more  sense  in  that 
than  in  reputation.’  1 4 What  wouldst  thou  write  of  me,  if  thou 

shouldst  praise  me  ? ’ says  Desdemona  : 

‘O  gentle  lady,  do  not  put  me  to’t; 

For  I am  nothing,  if  not  critical.’ 

She  insists,  and  bids  him  draw  the  portrait  of  a perfect  woman. 
He  does  it  characteristically: 

'■logo.  She  that  was  ever  fair  and  never  proud, 

Had  tongue  at  will  and  yet  was  never  loud. 

Never  lack'd  gold  and  yet  went  never  gay, 

Fled  from  her  wish  and  yet  said  “Now  I may,” 

She  that  being  anger’d,  her  revenge  being  nigh. 

Bade  her  wrong  stay  and  her  displeasure  fly. 

She  that  in  wisdom  never  was  so  frail 
To  change  the  cod's  head  for  the  salmon’s  tail, 

She  that  could  think  and  ne’er  disclose  her  mind, 

See  suitors  following  and  not  look  behind, 

She  was  a wight,  if  ever  such  wight  were,— 

Des.  To  do  what? 

Iago . To  suckle  fools  and  chronicle  small  beer.'' 

To  this  impotent  and  sinister  conclusion,  all  optimism  is  reduced. 
He  speaks  only  in  sarcasms.  He  is  an  inveterate  misanthrope, 
and  has  a rancorous  delight  in  the  worst  side  of  everything.  His 
coolness,  dexterity,  and  profound  dissimulation  appear  admirably 
where  he  first  enters  upon  the  execution  of  his  design  to  set 
Othello  and  Desdemona  at  fatal  issue: 

'■Iago.  My  noble  lord. 

Othello.  What  dost  thou  say,  Iago? 

Iago.  Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  woo’d  my  lady. 

Know  of  your  love? 

Othello.  He  did,  from  first  to  last. 

Why  dost  thou  ask? 

Iago.  But  for  a satisfaction  of  my  thought, 

No  further  harm. 

Othello.  Why  of  thy  thought,  Iago? 

Iago.  I did  not  think  he  had  been  acquainted  with  her. 

Othello.  O yes,  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 

Iago.  Indeed? 

Othello.  Indeed!  ay,  indeed.  Discern' st  thou  ought  in  that? 

Is  he  not  honest? 

Iago.  Honest,  my  lord? 

Othello.  Ay,  honest? 

Iago.  My  lord,  for  aught  I know. 

Othello.  WKat  dost  thou  think? 

Iago.  Think,  my  lord? 

Othello.  Think,  my  lord?  By  heaven,  he  echoes  me, 

As  if  there  was  some  monster  in  his  thought 
Too  hideous  to  be  shoiun.' 

i Othello. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


383 


Like  Mephistopheles,  he  can  justify  himself  by  cogent  reasoning. 
When  he  gives  the  advice  which  is  to  be  the  ruin  of  the  innocent 
and  trusting,  he  likens  the  atrocious  crime  to  virtue: 

‘And  what’s  he  then  that  says  I play  the  villain? 

When  this  advice  is  free  I give  and  honest, 

Probal  to  thinking  and  indeed  the  course 

To  win  the  Moor  again?  For  ’tis  most  easy 

The  inclining  Desdemona  to  subdue 

In  any  honest  suit:  she's  framed  as  fruitful 

As  the  free  elements.  And  then  for  her 

To  win  the  Moor, — were’t  to  renounce  his  baptism, 

All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin, — 

His  soul  is  so  enfetter'd  to  her  love, 

That  she  may  make,  unmake,  do  what  she  list. 

Even  as  her  appetite  shall  play  the  god 

With  his  weak  function.  IIow  am  I then  a villain?’ 


His  ease  arises  from  the  torture  lie  inflicts;  his  joy,  from  the 
success  of  his  treacherous  plots.  When  Othello  swoons  for  grief, 
he  rubs  his  hands  for  bliss:  ‘Work  on,  my  medicine,  work  ! Thus 
credulous  fools  are  caught.’  When  Othello  recovers,  he  inquires, 
with  diabolical  but  natural  indifference:  ‘How  is  it,  General? 
Have  you  not  hurt  your  head?’ 

In  Lear,  passion,  unrestrained  and  terrible,  rises  into  colossal 
proportions.  The  poor  old  king,  to  whom  patience  is  unknown, 
is  the  subject  of  prolonged  and  vast  agony.  His  daughters,  who 
turn  against  his  age  and  weakness,  are  the  one  rooted  idea  in  the 
desert  of  his  mind;  and  their  incredible  treacheries  gradually, 
through  transports  of  fury  and  convulsions  of  misery  ever  deep- 
ening and  growing,  drive  him  mad.  Nothing  can  exceed  the 
awful  beauty  of  the  meeting  between  him  and  Cordelia,  when, 
through  her  tender  care,  he  revives  and  recollects  her: 


'■Cor. 

Lear. 


Cor. 

Lear. 

Cor. 

Physician. 

Lear. 


Cor. 


How  does  my  royal  lord?  How  fares  your  majesty! 
Yon  do  me  wrong,  to  take  me  out  of  the  grave: 
Thou  art  a soul  in  bliss;  but  I am  bound 
Upon  a wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Sir,  do  you  know  me? 

You  are  a spirit  I know:  when  did  you  die? 

Still,  still  far  wide ! 

He’s  scarce  awake;  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Where  have  I been?  Where  am  I?  Fair  daylight? 

I am  mightily  abused.  I should  even  die  with  pity. 
To  see  another  thus.  I know  not  what  to  say. 

I will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands:— let’s  see; 

I feel  this  pin  prick.  Would  I were  assur’d 
Of  my  condition. 

O,  look  upon  me,  sir, 


384  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me:  . . . 

No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray  do  not  mock  me: 

I am  a very  foolish  fond  old  man, 

Fourscore  and  upward; 

Not  an  hour  more,  nor  less:  and  to  deal  plainly, 

I fear  I am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 

Methinks  I should  know  you,  and  know  this  man; 

Yet  I am  doubtful;  for  I am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is;  and  all  the  skill  I have 
Remembers  not  these  garments;  nor  I know  not 
Where  I did  lodge  last  night:  do  not  laugh  at  me; 

For,  as  I am  a man,  I think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I am,  I am ! ’ 

Lear,  who  thought  himself  omnipotent,  finds  himself  helpless; 
and,  once  pleased  with  false  professions  of  love,  now  clings  to 
that  which  is  tranquil  because  of  its  depth  and  fulness.  Thus 
they  console  each  other  when,  after  the  triumph  of  their  ene- 
mies, they  are  led  to  prison: 

'■Cor.  We  are  not  the  first. 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr'd  the  worst. 

For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I cast  down; 

Myself  could  else  out-frown  false  fortune's  frown. — 

Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters,  and  these  sisters? 

Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no!  Come,  let's  away  to  prison: 

We  too  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i’  the  cage: 

When  thou  dost  ask  my  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down, 

And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness:  so  we'll  live, 

And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 

At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 

Talk  of  court  news;  and  we’ll  talk  with  them  too  — 

Who  loses,  and  who  wins;  who's  in,  who's  out;— 

And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 

As  if  we  were  God’s  spies:  and  we'll  wear  out, 

In  a wall’d  prison,  packs,  and  sects  of  great  ones. 

That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon.’ 

The  history  of  Macbeth  is  the  story  of  a moral  poisoning. 
Frank,  sociable,  and  generous,  though  tainted  from  the  first  by 
base  and  ambitious  thoughts,  he  is  urged  on  to  his  ruin  by  the 
prophetic  warnings  of  the  witches,  by  golden  opportunity,  and 
the  instigations  of  his  wife.  He  has  physical  but  lacks  moral 
courage.  The  suggestion  of  a possible  crown  haunts  him.  He 
struggles,  but  he  is  a lion  in  the  toils.  He  feels  the  resistless 
traction  of  fate,  sees  himself  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  and  his 
brain  is  filled  with  phantoms : 

‘Why  do  I yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


385 


Against  the  use  of  nature?  Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings: 

My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 

Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man  that  function 
Is  smother’d  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is 
But  what  is  not.’ 

To  act,  he  must  be  sudden  and  desperate.  When  the  deed  is 
done,  he  is  horrified,  shudders  to  think  of*  it,  starts  at  every 
sound,  is  disturbed  by  a supposed  word  from  the  sleepers  in  an 
adjoining  room : 

‘One  cried,  “God  bless  us!”  and  “Amen,”  the  other; 

As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 

Listening  their  fear,  I could  not  say  “Amen,” 

When  they  did  say,  “God  bless  us!”.  . . 

But  wherefore  could  I not  pronounce  “Amen”? 

I had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  “Amen” 

Stuck  in  my  throat.’ 

Having  murdered  one,  he  must  murder  others,  in  order  to  pre- 
serve the  fruits  of  his  crime: 

‘I  am  in  blood 

Steep'd  in  so  far  that,  should  I wade  no  more. 

Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o’er.’ 

He  has  Banquo  murdered,  and  thereafter  is  in  continual  deadly 
terror  of  the  ghost  that  ‘will  not  down’: 

‘Prithee,  see  there!  Behold!  look!  lo!  how  say  you? 

Why,  what  care  I?  If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too. 

If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  . . . 

The  times  have  been 

That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 

And  there  an  end;  but  now  they  rise  again, 

With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 

And  push  us  from  our  stools:  . . . 

Avaunt!  and  quit  my  sight!  let  the  earth  hide  thee! 

Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold; 

Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with ! ’ 

A habit  of  slaughter,  mechanical  smiles,  and  a fixed  belief  in 
destiny  are  all  that  remain: 

‘Life’s  but  a walking  shadow,  a poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 

And  then  is  heard  no  more:  it  is  a tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 

Signifying  nothing.’ 

Yet  we  sympathize  with  him  in  that  fine  close  of  thoughtful 
melancholy: 

25 


386  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS, 


‘My  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf; 

And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 

As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 

I must  not  look  to  have;  but  in  their  stead. 

Curses  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth- honor,  breath 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare  not.’ 

Hamlet  is  a metaphysician  and  a.  psychologist;  a soul  of  sensi- 
bility, hope,  refinement,  and  thought,  with  every  kind  of  culture 
except  the  culture  of  active  life,  forced  from  its  natural  bias  by 
extreme  misfortune.  He  has  seen  only  the  beauty  of  humanity, 
and  at  once  sees  all  its  vileness  in  his  mother : 

‘O  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 

Thaw  and  resolve  itself  into  a dew! 

Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd 

His  canon  'gainst  self- slaughter ! O God!  O God! 

How  weary,  stale,  flat  and  unprofitable. 

Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world! 

Fie  on't ! ah  fie ! 'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 

That  grows  to  seed;  things  rank  and  gross  in  nature 
Possess  it  merely.  That  it  should  come  to  this! 

But  two  months  dead:  nay,  not  so  much,  not  two: 

So  excellent  a king,  ...  so  loving  to  my  mother, 

That  he  might  not  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.  Heaven  and  earth!  . . . 

And  yet,  within  a month, — 

Let  me  not  think  on't,— Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman!  — 

A little  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 

With  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father’s  body,  . . . 

Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  her  galled  eyes. 

She  married.’ 

Then  appears  the  ghost  in  the  night,  to  inform  him  of  the  fratri- 
cide, and  enjoin  him  to  avenge  the  crime: 

‘Hold,  hold,  my  heart, 

And  you  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 

But  bear  me  stiffly  up!  Remember  thee! 

Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.  Remember  thee! 

Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I’ll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 

All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past,  . . . 

And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live.’ 

Henceforth  he  is  a sceptic.  His  distress  is  transferred  to  the 
general  account.  The  universe  is  tinged  with  the  color  of  his 
own  ideas.  Sadness  clings  to  him  like  a malady: 

‘I  have  of  late  — but  wherefore  I know  not  — lost  all  my  mirth,  foregone  all  custom 
of  exercises,  and  indeed  it  goes  so  heavily  with  my  disposition  that  this  goodly  frame, 
the  earth,  seems  to  me  a sterile  promontory,  this  most  excellent  canopy,  the  air,  look 
you,  this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire,  why, 
it  appears  no  other  thing  to  me  than  a foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapors.  What 


SHAKESPEARE. 


387 


a piece  of  work  is  man!  how  noble  in  reason!  how  infinite  in  faculties!  in  form  and 
moving  how  express  and  admirable ! in  action  how  like  an  angel ! in  apprehension  how 
like  a god!  the  beauty  of  the  world!  the  paragon  of  animals!  And  yet,  to  me,  what  is 
this  quintessence  of  dust?  man  delights  not  me:  no,  nor  woman  neither.' 

He  doubts  everything,  doubts  immortality,  even  doubts  Ophelia, 
asks  her,  ‘Are  you  honest?’  Doubts  himself,  says  to  her:  ‘We 
are  arrant  knaves,  all;  believe  none  of  us.’  To  a hopeless  phi- 
losophy, the  world  is  a dull  blank,  and  man  a grinning  skull.  In 
this  mood,  the  unconscious  Hamlet  stumbles  on  the  destined 
grave  of  Ophelia,  and  pauses  to  muse  on  death  and  decay.  He 
comments  on  the  skulls  which  the  grave-digger  throws  up.  This 
may  be  the  ‘pate  of  a politician,  one  that  would  circumvent 
God’;  or  of  a courtier,  ‘which  could  say,  “Good  morrow,  sweet 
lord!’”  This  may  be  a lawyer’s: 

‘Where  be  his  quiddities  now,  his  quillets,  his  cases,  his  tenures,  and  his  tricks? 
why  does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave  now  to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a dirty 
shovel,  and  will  not  tell  him  of  his  action  of  battery?1 

Here  is  another.  It  is  Yorick’s: 

‘A  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy:  he  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a 
thousand  times;  and  now,  how  abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is!  my  gorge  rises  at  it. 
Here  hung  those  lips  that  I have  kissed  I know  not  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now? 
your  gambols?  your  songs?  your  flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to  set  the  table 
on  a roar?  Not  one  now,  to  mock  your  own  grinning?  quite  chap-fallen?  Now  get  you 
to  my  lady's  chamber , and  tell  her , let  her  paint  an  inch  thick , to  this  favor  she  must  come; 
make  her  laugh  at  that' 

The  base  affinities  of  the  body  are  irresistibly  attractive  to  his 
curiosity.  Did  Alexander  look  like  this?  Even  so.  The  high- 
est are  but  animate  clay,  and  return  to  basest  uses.  ‘ Why  may 
not  imagination  trace  the  noble  dust  of  Alexander,  till  he  find  it 
stopping  a bung-hole  ?'  This  surplus  of  imagination  disqualifies 
Hamlet  for  action.  He  is  forever  analyzing  his  own  emotions 
and  motives,  and  does  nothing  because  he  sees  two  ways  of  doing 
it.  He  is  continually  diverted  from  his  purpose  by  his  scruples. 
He  spares  his  uncle  because  he  finds  him  praying,  and  waits  for 
some  more  fatal  opportunity,  ‘that  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in 
it.’  He  is  conscious  of  his  defect,  reproves  himself  for  it,  tries  to 
reason  himself  out  of  it: 

‘How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 

And  spur  my  dull  revenge ! What  is  a man. 

If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed?  . . . 

I do  not  know 

Why  yet  I live  to  say,  this  thing’s  to  do;  . . . 

O,  from  this  time  forth, 

My  thoughts  be  bloody  or  be  nothing  worth.’ 


388  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


He  only  alternates  between  enthusiasm  and  inactivity.  His  tri- 
umphs in  words  are  rocket-bursts  of  momentary  splendor.  Of 
deliberate  energy  he  is  not  capable.  If  he  plunges  a sword  into 
a breast,  he  does  it  in  a fit  of  excitement,  on  a sudden  impulse 
from  without.  So  his  strength,  in  the  moment  of  its  final  extinc- 
tion, leaps  up  to  accomplish  the  punishment  of  the  malefactor. 
It  was  thus  that  he  had  killed  Polonius,  his  brooding  bitterness 
leaving  him  without  remorse: 

'■King.  Now  Hamlet,  where’s  Polonius? 

Hamlet.  At  supper. 

King.  At  supper!  where? 

Hamlet.  Not  where  he  eats,  but  where  he  is  eaten:  a certain  convocation  of  politic 
worms  are  e’en  at  him.’ 

Hamlet  is  an  enigma,  never  wholly  explicable  and  forever  sug- 
gestive. 

The  real  is  one  great  field  of  Shakespeare’s  jpower;  the  fan- 
tastical is  another, — the  supernatural  world,  the  world  of  appari- 
tions. We  have  elsewhere  seen  a variety  of  this  life  in  the 
witches  of  Macbeth.  Never  were  so  exquisitely  imagined,  sus- 
tained, or  expressed,  the  nimble  genii,  the  bodiless  sylphs,  the 
dreamy  population  of  the  moonlit  forests.  Prospero’s  enchanted 
isle  is  full  of  — 

‘Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 

Sometimes  a thousand  twanging  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears,  and  sometimes  voices, 

That  if  I then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 

Would  make  me  sleep  again;  and  then  in  dreaming. 

The  clouds  methought  would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me:  when  I wak’d 
I cried  to  dream  again.’ 1 

Ariel,  delicate  as  an  abstraction  of  the  dawn  and  vesper  sun- 
lights, flies  around  shipwrecked  men  to  console  them,  spreads 
glowing  visions  before  lovers,  and  executes  his  mission  with  the 
swiftness  of  thought: 

‘Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 

In  a cowslip's  bell  I lie.  . . . 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I live  now* 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough.  . . . 

I drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  e’er  your  pulse  twice  beat.’2 

When  Titania,  Queen  of  the  Fairies,  contends  with  Oberon,  her 
husband,  for  the  retention  of  her  favorite  page,  of  whom  he 
1 Tempest.  ^ Ibid. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


389 


seeks  to  deprive  her,  the  frightened  elves  hide  in  the  acorn  cups. 
Oberon  comes  off  second  best,  and,  by  way  of  retaliation,  drops 
upon  Titania’s  sleeping  eyes  the  juice  of  a magic  flower,  which 
changes  her  heart: 

‘What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take; 

Love  and  languish  for  his  sake: 

Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 

Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 

In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak’st,  it  is  thy  dear; 

Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.1 1 

The  result  is,  that  she  finds  herself  enamored  of  Bottom,  a stupid 
fellow  with  an  ass’s  head: 

‘Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go: 

Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no.  . . . 

I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee; 

And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 

And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep. 

And  I will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go.1 

She  calls  her  fairy  attendants: 

‘Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman, 

Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes; 

Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries, 

With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries; 

The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees. 

And  for  night  tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs. 

And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm’s  eyes. 

To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise; 

And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 

To  fan  the  moon  beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes.1  . . . 

Then: 

‘ Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed. 

While  I thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy 

And  stick  musk- roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 

And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears , my  gentle  joy.' 

To  all  this  divine  tenderness,  her  love  makes  characteristic  reply: 

'•Bot.  Where’s  Peas-blossom? 

Peas.  Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head , Peas-blossom.  Where’s  Monsieur  Cobweb? 

Cob.  Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb,  good  monsieur,  get  up  your  weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill 
me  a red-hipped  humble-bee  on  the  top  of  a thistle ; and,  good  monsieur,  bring  me  the 
honey-bag.  Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much  with  the  action , monsieur  ; and,  good  mon- 
sieur, have  a care  the  honey-bag  break  not;  I would  be  loth  to  have  you  overflown  with  a 
honey-bag , signior.  Where’s  Monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

Must.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  fist,  Monsieur  Mustard-seed.  Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy, 
good  monsieur. 

Must.  What’s  your  will? 


1 Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 


390  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD— REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  Cavaliero  Cobweb  to  scratch.  I must  to 
the  barber’s,  monsieur;  for  methinks  I am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face ; and  I am 
such  a tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me  I must  scratch. 

Tit.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love? 

Bot.  I have  a reasonable  ear  in  music:  let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tit.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly  a peck  of  provender.  I could  munch  your  good  dry  oats.  Methinks  I 
have  a great  desire  to  a bottle  of  hay.  Good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Tit.  I have  a venturous  fairy,  that  shall  seek 

The  squirrel’s  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I had  rather  have  a handful  or  two  of  dried  peas : — but,  I pray  you,  let  none 
of  your  people  stir  me;  I have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tit.  Sleep  thou,  and  I will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 

Fairies,  begone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 

So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  entwist;— the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 

O,  how  I love  thee!  How  I dote  on  thee!’ 

Was  ever  such  extent  of  action?  such  diverse  creation?  such 
mastery  of  situation  and  form  ? 

It  is  this  poet’s  prerogative  to  have  thought  more  finely  and 
more  extensively  than  all  other  poets  combined.  Not  the  least 
of  the  emblazonries  upon  his  shield  is  his  teeming  fertility  of  fine 
ideas  and  sentiments,  universally  intelligible,  and  applicable  to 
the  circumstances  of  every  human  being.  For  instance,  as 
merest  suggestions  of  the  golden  bead-roll  that  might  be  gath- 
ered from  his  works: 

‘’Tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich.’ 

‘How  ill  white  hairs  become  a fool  and  jester!’ 

‘Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field.’ 

‘ Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny.’ 

‘Violent  delights  have  violent  ends, 

And  in  their  triumph  die.’ 

‘Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win, 

By  fearing  to  attempt.’ 

‘Good  name,  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls.’ 

‘For  aught  that  ever  I could  read, 

Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 

The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth.' 

‘The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together:  our  virtues  would 
be  proud  if  our  faults  whipped  them  not;  and  our  crimes  would  despair  if  they  were  not 
cherished  by  our  virtues.’ 

‘Never  durst  poet  touch  a pen  to  write 
Until  his  ink  were  temper’d  with  love’s  sighs; 


SHAKESPEARE. 


391 


O,  then  his  lines  would  ravage  savage  ears, 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility.’ 

4’Tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 

And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 

Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  glistering  grief, 

And  wear  a golden  sorrow.’ 

‘There’s  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold’ st, 

But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 

Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins; 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls; 

But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it.’ 

‘The  cloud-capp’d  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces. 

The  solemn  temple,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit  shall  dissolve; 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded. 

Leave  not  a rack  behind.’ 

‘Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where; 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 

This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A kneaded  clod;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick- ribbed  ice; 

To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds. 

And  blown  with  restless  violence  about 
The  pendent  world;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling!  — ’tis  too  horrible!’ 

Perhaps  there  is  a mood  in  the  life  of  every  thoughtful  person 
when  he  feels,  and  in  a sense  truly,  that  human  existence  is  a 
little  tract  of  feverish  vigils,  islanded  by  a shoreless  ocean  of 
oblivion: 

‘We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a sleep.’ 

Still,  in  his  higher,  serener  altitudes,  he  will  bid  us  do  our  dream 
duties: 

‘To  thine  own  self  be  true; 

And  it  must  follow  as  the  night  the  day. 

Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man.’ 

And  still  he  believes  in  the  immortal  essence  of  the  dreamer; 
and  will  say  with  Hamlet,  of  the  ghost,  though  his  teeth  chatter: 

‘I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a pin's  fee; 

And  for  my  soul , what  can  it  do  to  that , 

Being  a thing  immortal  as  itself?’ 

When,  too,  a man  has  tried  wearily  but  vainly  to  adjust  the 
infinite  part  of  him  to  the  finite,  or,  in  learning  to  prescribe  a 
narrower  boundary  for  the  things  he  expected  to  obtain,  has  felt 


392  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


stealing  upon  him  an  unwelcome  conviction  of  the  vanity  of 
human  hopes,  he  may  think, — 


‘There's  a divinity  that  shapes  our  ends. 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will.' 1 

Or  this?  — 


‘That  we  would  do. 

We  should  do  when  we  would;  for  this  icould  changes, 
And  hath  abatements,  and  delays  as  many 
As  there  are  tongues,  are  hands,  are  instruments.’ 


But,  with  a truer  insight,  he  will  confess  this  to  be  but  a frag- 
ment, a partial  account,  of  our  complex  nature: 

‘Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie. 

Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven ; the  fated  sky 
Gives  ns  free  scope , only  doth  backward  push 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull.’3 

Lately  Tyndall,  of  the  advanced  materialists,  declared  at  Bir- 
mingham that  ‘the  robber,  the  ravisher,  and  the  murderer  offend 
because  they  can  not  help  offending.’  But  three  hundred  years 
before,  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  a far  greater  than  Tyndall  pro- 
claimed in  words  that  will  never  die: 


‘This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the  world,  that,  when  we  are  sick  in  fortune,— 
often  the  surfeit  of  our  own  behavior, — we  make  guilty  of  our  disasters  the  sun,  the 
moon,  and  the  stars:  as  if  ice  were  villains  by  necessity  ; fools  by  heavenly  compulsion; 
knaves,  thieves,  and  treachers  by  spherical  predominance;  drunkards,  liars,  and  adulter- 
ers, by  an  enforced  obedience  of  planetary  influence;  and  all  that  we  are  evil  in,  by  a 
divine  thrusting  on:  an  admirable  evasion  of  abominable  man,  to  lay  his  goatish  dispo- 
sition to  the  charge  of  a star!  . . . Tut,  I should  have  been  that  I am,  had  the  maidenliest 
star  in  the  firmament  twinkled  on  my  birth.’ 3 

Lord  Bacon  wished  that  a science  of  the  human  passions  might 
be  elaborated.  He  could  have  found  it  in  Shakespeare.  The 
parts  are  there,  needing  only  to  be  combined  into  a consistent 
whole.  Underlying  and  penetrating  them  is  the  Moral  Law. 
They  disclose  a constantly  recurring  emphasis,  a pervading 
agency,  of  the  two  grand  factors  in  moral  being, — the  motive 


1 Hamlet.  M.  Taine,  intent  upon  the  confirmation  of  a theory,  would  have  Shake- 
speare define  man  as  a ‘nervous  machine'  led  at  random  by  determinate  and  complex 
circumstances.  But  the  eminent  Frenchman,  more  brilliant  than  profound,  has,  in  the 
passages  he  cites,  not  only  generalized  from  inadequate  data,  but  has  failed  to  discrimi- 
nate between  dramatic  and  philosophical  or  theological  significance.  It  is  when  we  have 
divested  ourselves  of  our  proper  humanity  that  life  becomes  a walking  shadow  — an 
automaton.  Did  M.  Taine  note  this? — 

‘Refrain  to-night. 

And  that  shall  lend  a kind  of  easiness 
To  the  next  abstinence:  the  next  more  easy; 

For  use  almost  can  change  the  stamp  of  nature. 

And  either  curb  the  devil,  or  throw  him  out. 

With  wondrous  potency.' 


'All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 


3 King  Lear. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


393 


force  and  the  perceptive  faculty, — Free-Will  and  Conscience. 
Let  us  hear  a few  of  the  observations  which  this  anatomist  of  the 
heart,  by  the  simple  exposition  of  human  conduct,  has  made  in 
the  sphere  of  the  latter.  For  example,  of  the  monitory  function 
of  conscience,  the  collision  and  struggle  of  opposite  impulses: 
‘Conscience  is  a thousand  swords.’1 

Or,— 

‘ First  Murd.  How  dost  thou  feel  thyself  now? 

Second  Murd.  ’Faith,  some  certain  dregs  of  conscience  are  yet  within  me. 

First  Murd.  Remember  our  reward,  when  the  deed  is  done. 

Second  Murd.  ’Zounds,  he  dies:  I had  forgot  the  reward. 

First  Murd.  Where  is  thy  conscience  now? 

Second  Murd.  In  the  Duke  of  Gloucester's  purse. 

First  Murd.  So  when  he  opens  his  purse  to  give  us  our  reward,  thy  conscience  flies  out. 

Second  Murd.  ’Tis  no  matter.  Let  it  go;  there’s  few  or  none  will  entertain  it. 

First  Murd.  How  if  it  come  to  thee  again  ? 

Second  Murd.  I’ll  not  meddle  with  it:  it  is  a dangerous  thing:  it  makes  a man  a cow- 
ard: a man  cannot  steal,  but  it  accuseth  him;  a man  cannot  swear,  but  it  check  him; 
. . . ’tis  a blushing  shamefaced  spirit  that  mutinies  in  a man’s  bosom;  it  fills  one  full  of 
obstacles:  it  made  me  once  restore  a purse  of  gold  that  by  chance  I found;  it  beggars  any 
man  that  keeps  it:  it  is  turned  out  of  all  towns  and  cities  for  a dangerous  thing.  . . . 

First  Murd.  ’Zounds,  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow,  persuading  me  not  to  kill  the 
duke.’2 


Or,— 

‘ Macb . If  it  were  done  when  ’tis  done,  then  ’twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly:  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence , and  catch 
With  his  surcease  success;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here , 

But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, 

We’d  jump  the  life  to  come.  But  in  these  cases 
We  still  have  judgment  here;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor:  . . . 

This  Duncan 

Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off; 

And  pity,  like  a naked  new-born  babe, 

Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  horse 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 

Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.  I have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself.' 3 

More  powerful  still, — 

‘Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caesar, 

I have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a dreadful  thing 


Richard  III. 


2 Ibid. 


3 Macbeth. 


394  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a phantasma,  or  a hideous  dream: 

The  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 
Are  then  in  council;  and  the  state  of  man, 

Like  to  a little  kingdom,  suffers  then 
The  nature  of  an  insurrection.' 1 

The  timidity  of  guilt,  its  mental  and  physical  effects, — the  soul 
accusing*  itself: 

‘Suspicion  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind.’2 
‘How  is’t  with  me  when  every  noise  appals  me?’3 
‘Guiltiness  will  speak , though  tongues  were  out  of  use?'4 

‘Methought  I heard  a voice  cry,  “ Sleep  no  more! 

Macbeth  does  murder  sleep;"  . . . 

Still  it  cried,  '‘'■Sleep  no  more!"  to  all  the  house: 

“Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more.”’ 

And  so  Lady  Macbeth,  at  whose  heart,  when  royalty  crowns  her 
and  royal  robes  enfold  her,  gnaws  the  undying  worm: 

'■Naught's  had— all's  spent 
Where  our  desire  is  had  without  content. 

'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy.’ 

The  boldness  of  innocence: 

‘What  stronger  breastplate  than  a heart  untainted? 

Thrice  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  just , 

And  he  but  naked , though  locked  up  in  steel , 

Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted.' 5 

Its  peaceful,  cheering,  commanding  effect: 

‘ I feel  within  me 

A peace  above  all  earthly  dignities  — 

A still  and  quiet  conscience.'  6 

To  sum  up  all: 

‘Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin’d  me. 

Cromwell,  I charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition: 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels;  how  can  man,  then. 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it? 

Love  thyself  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee; 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 

To  silence  envious  tongues.  Be  just,  and  fear  not: 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country’s, 

Thy  God’s  and  truth’s.’ 7 

What  altitudes  did  this  man  not  reach  ? What  depths  did 
not  his  plummet  sound?  What  domain  of  consciousness  did  he 
not  extend  ? 


1 Caesar.  2 Henry  VI.  3 Macbeth.  4 Ibid.  6 Henry  VI.  • Heni'y  VIII.  7 Ibid . 


SHAKESPEARE. 


395 


Originality.  — A few  years  ago  the  most  eminent  living 
writer1  of  Holland  said  to  a congress  of  authors  and  publishers 
at  Brussels:  ‘For  nearly  forty  years  I have  lived  principally  by 
robbery  and  theft.’  He  justified  his  practice  by  the  example 
of  Virgil,  Dante,  Tasso,  Milton,  Voltaire,  Schiller,  and  others. 
Every  man  is  receptive.  The  greatest  are  the  most  indebted. 
Chaucer’s  opulence  has  fed  many  pensioners,  but  he  was  himself 
a huge  borrower,  using  Gower  and  the  Italians  like  stone- 
quarries.  Shakespeare,  like  every  master,  is  at  once  heir  and 
dispenser.  He  has  no  credit  of  design.  His  materials,  as  the 
table  shows,  were  already  prepared.  He  absorbed  all  the  light 
anywhere  radiating.  He  borrowed  not  only  the  plot,  but  often 
and  extensively  the  very  terms.  Read  Plutarch’s  Lives  for  the 
originals  of  Julius  Caesar.  Out  of  6,043  lines  in  Henry  TV,  1,771 
were  written  by  some  antecedent  author;  2,373  by  Shakespeare 
on  the  foundation  laid  by  his  predecessors ; and  only  1,899  by 
himself  alone  ! 2 Ready-made  plots,  solitary  thoughts,  fortunate 
expressions  were  at  hand,  but  he  organized,  enriched,  and  vivi- 
fied them.  Of  little  value  where  he  found  them,  they  were 
priceless  where  he  left  them.  ‘Thought,’  says  Emerson,  ‘is  the 
property  of  him  who  can  entertain  it ; and  of  him  who  can 
adequately  place  it.’ 

Versification. — He  had  no  system,  no  mannerism,  but  the 
true  secret  of  blank  verse  — the  adaptation  of  words  and 
rhythms  to  the  sense  contained  in  them.  Thought  runs  before 
expression  and  moulds  it  to  its  own  peculiar  uses.  Hence  the 
defective  and  redundant  lines,  and  other  rhythmic  variations,  as 
the  various  distribution  of  the  time-values  within  a bar,  by  which 
Shakespeare  out  of  the  bare  type  of  blank  verse  has  brought 
such  marvellous  and  subtle  music. 

Style  . — His  versification  is  powerful,  sweet  and  varied,  natu- 
rally and  enduringly  musical.  It  was  the  sweetness  of  his  utter- 
ance that  gave  to  his  first  readers  their  chief  delight.  To  them, 
he  was  the  ‘ honey-tongued.’  His  diction  is  appropriate  to  the 
persons  who  use  it,  and  to  the  idea  or  sentiment  it  conveys. 

The  dominant  feature  of  his  style  is  impassioned  luxuriance. 
It  is  the  translation  of  abstract  thoughts  into  visible  images, — 

1 Van  Lennep.  2 Malone’s  computation. 


396  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


thoughts  that  come  of  themselves,  thrown  out  from  the  furnace 
of  invention  by  the  seething',  whirling  energies  of  passion,  crowd- 
ed and  contorted;  images  that  unfold  like  a series  of  paintings, 
involuntarily,  in  mingled  contrasts,  copious,  jumbled,  flaming. 
Thus  Hamlet  to  the  queen’s  question,  ‘What  have  I done?’ 
answers  as  if  his  brain  were  on  fire: 

‘Such  an  act 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty, 

Calls  virtue  hypocrite,  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 

And  sets  a blister  there,  makes  marriage -vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths:  O,  such  a deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul,  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A rhapsody  of  words;  heaven's  face  doth  glow: 

Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 

With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 

Is  thought-sick  at  the  act.’ 

Whatever  the  situation,  he  is  exuberant  because  he  is  buried  and 
absorbed  in  it.  All  objects  shrink  and  expand  to  serve  him,  are 
transfigured  by  his  rapture.  Thus, — 

‘The  morning  steals  upon  the  night. 

Melting  the  darkness.' 

Or,— 

‘How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank!’ 

And, — 

‘The  strong  based  promontory 
Have  I made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
The  pine  and  cedar.1 

To  the  excited  soul,  metaphor  is  a necessity.  It  thinks  of  no 
rules,  and  requires  none.  It  studies  not  to  be  just  or  clear,  but 
attains  life.  It  seizes  ideas  and  figures  without  a consciousness 
of  its  movements,  and  hurls  them  with  an  energy  like  to  the 
supernatural.  Its  condensation  and  confusion  abide  no  criticism, 
and  heed  none.  As  the  result  of  inspiration,  they  mark  the 
suddenness  and  the  breaks  of  the  inner  and  divine  afflatus. 

Rank. — To  excel  in  pathos,  in  wit,  or  in  humor;  in  sub- 
limity, as  Milton;  in  intensity,  as  Chaucer;  or  in  remoteness,  as 
Spenser, — would  form  a great  poet;  but  to  unite  all,  as  Shake- 
sjDeare  has  done,  is — 

‘7b  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world , 

And  bear  the  palm  alone!'' 

Others  have  equalled  or  surpassed  him  in  some  particular  excel- 
lence, but  no  man  ever  had  at  once  such  strength  and  variety  of 


SHAKESPEARE. 


397 


imagination.  He  has  grasped  all  the  diversities  of  rank,  sex,  and 
age.  His  imperial  muse  has  swept  the  poles  of  existence  — the 
human  and  the  superhuman.  His  characters  are  legion;  but  — 
whether  sage  or  idiot,  king  or  beggar,  queen  or  nurse,  hero  or 
clown,  plotting  villain  or  sportive  fairy  — all  are  distinct,  all 
speak  and  act  with  equal  truth,  all  are  inspired  by  the  artist’s 
animation.  No  other  ever  saw  the  world  of  nature  and  of  mind 
from  so  many  points  of  view.  He  is  all  that  he  imaginatively 
sees.  Thus  his  figures  acquire  a relief  and  color  which  create 
illusion.  They  are  so  consistent  and  vital  that  we  seem  to  know 
them,  not  by  description,  but  by  intercourse. 

If  we  seek  to  refer  this  preeminence  to  the  possession  of  any 
peculiar  quality,  we  think  it  may  be  found  in  the  superior  power 
of  grouping  men  in  natural  classes  by  an  insight  of  general  laws. 
His  penetrative  genius  discerns  the  common  attributes  of  indi- 
viduals; his  dramatic  genius  gathers  them  up  into  one  concep- 
tion, and  embodies  that  in  a type;  his  poetic  genius  lifts  it  into 
an  ideal  region,  where,  under  circumstances  more  propitious,  it 
may  find  a free  and  full  development.  Each  character  is  thus 
the  ideal  head  of  a family.  Each  is  rooted  in  humanity.  Each 
is  an  impassioned  representative.  Each,  therefore,  is  a species 
individualized.  You  will  find  many  that  resemble  it,  but  none 
identical  with  it.  In  actual  existence,  there  is  no  Falstaff, 
though  there  be  multitudes  like  him.  Vital  generalization  is 
thus  the  secret  of  Shakespeare’s  transcendent  superiority  over  all 
other  writers.  His  personages  are  of  no  locality,  no  sect.  They 
belong  to  all  regions,  and  to  all  ages.  This  is  the  essential  prin- 
ciple of  highest  literature, — that  it  is  addressed  to  man  as  man, 
not  to  men  as  they  are  parted  into  trades  and  professions.  Its 
audience-chamber  is  the  globe.  Its  touches  of  nature  make  the 
whole  world  kin. 

We  are  not,  however,  to  think  of  Shakespeare  as  having 
achieved  his  work  by  the  power  of  his  single  genius.  He  was 
fortunately  born.  The  tide  of  thoughts  and  events  was  at  its 
flood.  Contemporary  ideas  and  necessities  forced  him  on.  He 
stood,  like  every  greatest  man,  where  all  hands  pointed  in  the 
direction  in  which  he  should  go.  Generations  pioneered  his  road. 
Noble  conceptions  and  a noble  school  of  execution  awaited  him. 
Filled  with  the  power  of  that  spirit  which  prevailed  widely 


398  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

around  him  and  formed  his  environment,  he  carried  them  to  the 
summit  of  excellence.  The  topstone  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument 
is  highest  only  because  it  rests  on  every  block  underneath;  the 
lowest  and  smallest  helps  to  hold  it  there. 

Character. — Norman  by  the  father,  Saxon  by  the  mother, 
Shakespeare  had  the  English  duality.  He  combined  the  Oriental 
soaring  of  the  first  with  the  grip  and  exactitude  of  the  second. 
Imperfectly  educated,  he  had  as  much  culture  as  he  wanted,  and 
of  whatever  kind  he  wanted.  All  the  classicism  then  attainable 
he  got  cheap  — ready-made.  Like  Goethe,  he  set  little  store  by 
useless  learning.  Yet  who  can  reckon  all  that  he  knew  of  man 
and  of  history?  Such  minds  have  no  need  to  be  taught;  they 
are  full,  and  overflow,  by  the  revelations  of  their  seer’s  madness. 

A nature  affectionate  and  kind,1  witty  in  conversation,  brill- 
iantly gay;  extreme  in  joy  and  pain;  so  exquisitely  sensitive, 
that,  like  a perfect  harp,  it  vibrated  at  the  slightest  touch;  with 
an  imagination  so  broad,  that  it  grasped  all  the  complexity  of 
human  lot,  its  laughter  and  its  tears;  so  copious,  that  he  never 
erased  what  he  had  written;  so  glowing,  that  it  set  at  defiance 
the  Unities  which  imprisoned  it,  and  produced  in  their  stead  a 
fantastic  pageant, — a medley  of  forms,  colors,  and  sentiments; 
with  sympathies  so  embracing,  so  urgent,  that  he  became  trans- 
fused into  all  that  he  conceived,  and  gave  to  a multitude  of 
diverse  individualities  each  a separate  soul. 

Without  doubt,  in  his  youth,  he  was  not  a pattern  of  pro- 
priety. His  Venus  and  Adonis  is  little  else  than  a debauch.  As 
a dramatist  he  is  certainly  neither  a professed  religionist,  nor  a 
pronounced  reformer.  He  copies  at  random  the  high  and  the 
low.  He  holds  the  mirror  up  to  all  that  is  — the  whole  reality. 
While  the  lower  half  of  the  far-spread  glass  is  therefore  blotched, 
we  believe  that  the  upper  half  is  his  ultimate  and  essential  self. 
With  advancing  years,  he  evidently  dwells  more  upon  the  great 
characters  of  his  tragedies,  and  gives  increased  light  to  moral 
issues.  More  and  more,  as  he  grows  older,  he  tightens  the 
strands  in  the  colossal  harp  of  his  nature  and  strikes  the  reso- 
nant wires  with  a firmer  plectrum.  Deeper  and  deeper  sink  the 
pangs  of  affection  misplaced,  the  memory  of  hours  misspent. 
Conscience  is  ill  at  ease  with  the  world.  Thus  again  and 
1 ‘My  darling  Shakespeare,"  ‘Sweet  swan  of  Avon.’— Ben  Jonson. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


399 


again  he  alludes  to  the  infamy  of  his  marriage.  If  the  fact, 
without  the  form,  exists  before  — 

‘All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  ministered, 

No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow;  but  barren  hate, 

Sour-eyed  disdain  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both ; therefore  take  heed 
As  Hymen’s  lamps  shall  light  you.’ 

Joy  alternates  with  sadness,  transports  with  melancholies: 

‘That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 

Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  see’st  the  twilight  of  such  day. 

As  after  sun-set  fadeth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death’s  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 

In  me  thou  see’st  the  glowing  of  such  lire, 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie,  , 

As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consum’d  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceiv’st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long.’ 

Here  are  the  last  notes  struck  within  the  hearing  of  this  world: 

‘I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God,  my  Creator,  hoping  and  assuredly  be- 
lieving, through  the  only  merits  of  Jesus  Christ,  my  Savior,  to  be  made  partaker  of  life 
everlasting.’  1 

Influence. — Upon  universal  sympathy,  upon  historical  in- 
quiry, upon  linguistic  development,  he  has  left  a potent  and 
enduring  impress.  His  works  and  the  Bible,  both  models  of 
Teutonic  simplicity,  are  the  great  conservators  of  English  speech. 

He  infused  into  the  early  drama  a spirit  of  high  art;  gave  it 
order,  symmetry,  elevation;  informed  it  with  true  airy  wit  and 
rich  but  subtle  humor;  made  it  an  opulent  and  unfailing  fount 
of  entertainment  and  instruction. 

He  has  revealed,  in  fresh,  familiar,  significant,  and  precise 
details,  the  complete  condition  of  civilization:  and  thus  to  attain 
nature  truthfully  in  the  balance  of  motives  and  the  issues  of 
action,  is  in  the  most  vital  of  all  ways  to  be  moral;  to  be  a prop- 
agator, though  by  indirection,  of  the  morality  that  governs  and 
illuminates  the  world;  else  is  nature  immoral  and  in  fellowship 
with  impurity. 


Shakespeare’s  will. 


400  FIRST  CREATIVE  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Consider  the  mental  activity  of  which  he  is  the  occasion;  how 
far,  and  for  how  many,  he  has  enlarged  the  circle  of  study  and 
reflection;  the  fund  of  maxims,  observations,  and  sentiments, 
that  relate  to  whatever  is  interesting,  important,  or  lofty  in 
human  life,  and  whose  infinite  variety  age  cannot  wither  nor  cus- 
tom stale.  Art,  science,  history,  politics,  physics,  philosophy, 
shall  tax  him  for  illustration  while  the  tide  of  human  feeling-s 
and  passions  shall  continue  its  course. 

Shakespeare  is  like  a great  primeval  forest,  whence  timber 
shall  be  cut  and  used  as  long  as  winds  blow  and  leaves  are  green. 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FEATURES. 

Man  is  explicable  by  nothing  less  than  all  his  history. — Emerson. 

Politics. — European  civilization  had  merged  in  two  essential 
facts, — free  inquiry  and  centralization  of  power;  the  first  pre- 
vailing in  religious  society,  the  second  in  civil.  Before  these 
two  could  be  reconciled,  a struggle  between  them  was  inevitable. 
On  the  one  hand,  royalty  declared  itself  superior  to  the  laws;  on 
the  other,  the  spirit  of  liberty  was  passing  from  the  public  mind 
to  the  state.  When,  in  1603,  James,  the  Sixth  of  Scotland  and 
the  First  of  England,  ascended  the  throne,  the  decisive  hour  was 
fast  approaching'  when  either  the  king  must  become  absolute, 
or  the  parliament  preponderant.  He  alternately  enraged  and 
alarmed  them  by  his  monstrous  claims,  and  excited  their  scorn 
by  his  concessions;  kept  discontent  alive  by  his  fondness  for 
worthless  and  tyrannical  favorites;  provoked  derision  by  his 
cowardice,  his  pedantry,  his  ungainly  person,  and  his  uncouth 
manners.  The  dignity  of  government  was  weakened,  loyalty  was 
cooled,  and  revolution  was  fostered.  Under  his  son  and  successor 
Charles  I,  the  struggle  went  on.  He  inherited  his  father’s  the- 
ories, with  a stronger  disposition  to  carry  them  into  effect.  He 
imposed  and  collected  illegal  taxes,  made  forced  loans;  was  art- 
ful, capricious,  and  winding;  entered  into  compacts  which  he 
had  no  intention  of  observing;  was  perfidious  from  habit  and  on 
principle.  The  commons  put  on  a sterner  front.  Parliament 
after  parliament  was  dissolved,  each  more  intractable  than  the 
former.  Then  he  attempted  to  rule  without  one,  and  for  eleven 
years  — an  interval  utterly  without  precedent  — the  Houses  were 
not  convoked.  Yielding  at  length  to  the  pressure  of  necessity, 
he  summoned  them  in  1640,  but  quickly  dismissed  them  when 
they  would  have  considered  the  grievances  of  the  nation.  The 
26  401 


402 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


opposition  grew  fiercer.  In  November  of  the  same  year,  without 
money,  without  credit,  without  authority  even  in  his  own  camp, 
he  yielded  again;  and  then  met  the  ever-memorable  body  known 
as  the  Long  Parliament.  Again  he  broke  faith  with  his  council, 
with  his  people;  and  in  August,  1642,  the  sword  was  drawn. 
Charles,  driven  to  Scotland  and  by  the  Scots  surrendered  to  his 
English  subjects,  expiated  his  crimes  with  his  blood.  The  soul 
of  the  revolutionary  party  was  Cromwell,  whose  warrior  saints, 
devotedly  attached  to  their  leader,  were  bent  on  the  establish- 
ment of  a free  and  pious  commonwealth.  Having  destroyed  the 
king,  they  vanquished  in  turn  the  Parliament,  which,  having  out- 
lived its  usefulness,  and  forgetting  it  was  the  creature  of  the 
army,  exasperated  the  latter  by  its  dictation.  The  victorious 
chief  became  king  in  everything  but  name.  The  government, 
though  in  form  a republic,  was  in  truth  a military  despotism;  but 
the  despot  was  wise  and  magnanimous,  and  the  glory  of  Eng- 
land, grown  dim  in  the  two  preceding  reigns,  shone  again,  with 
a brighter  lustre  than  ever.  Cromwell’s  death,  in  1658,  brought 
the  rule  of  Puritanism  to  an  end.  The  master  had  been  a tem- 
porary necessity.  His  system,  acknowledged  by  all  to  be  neces- 
sary, wTas  acceptable  to  none.  The  soldiers,  against  whom,  wdiile 
united,  plots  and  risings  of  malcontents  were  ineffectual,  now 
released  from  the  control  of  that  mighty  spirit,  separated  into 
factions.  Weary  of  strife,  and  terrified  at  the  prospect  of  re- 
newed civil  warfare,  the  country  sought  again  the  shelter  of  the 
monarchy,  and  invited  the  return  of  its  exiled  prince.  Charles 
II  was  proclaimed,  and  the  Restoration  was  accomplished. 

From  1641  dates  the  corporate  existence  of  the  two  great 
parties  which  have  ever  since  contended  for  the  direction  of 
public  affairs.  The  royalists,  comprising  the  nobles,  the  gentry, 
and  the  prelacy,  were  called  Cavaliers , from  their  gallant  bear- 
ing and  equestrian  skill.  The  opposition,  comprising  a few  of 
the  peers,  the  bulk  of  citizens  and  yeomen,  and  the  Nonconform- 
ists, were  called  Roundheads , from  the  Puritan  fashion  of  wear- 
ing closely  cropped  hair.  The  names  were  afterwards  changed 
to  Tory  and  Whig,  and  these,  still  later,  to  Conservative  and 
Liberal ; but  the  principles  have  remained  essentially  the 
same.  The  watchword  of  the  first  is  Order;  that  of  the  second, 
Progress. 


CHANGES  IN  SOCIETY  AND  MANNERS. 


403 


Society. — In  the  midst  of  light,  the  thick  darkness  of  the 
middle-age  rested  on  Ireland.  Only  the  heavy  hand  of  a single 
despot  could  deliver  her  from  the  local  despotism  of  a hundred 
masters.  Cromwell’s  conquest  was  a series  of  awful  massacres. 
‘I  am  persuaded,’  he  says,  ‘that  this  is  a righteous  judgement 
of  God  upon  these  barbarous  wretches  who  have  imbrued  their 
hands  in  so  much  innocent  blood,  and  that  it  will  tend  to  pre- 
vent the  effusion  of  blood  for  the  future.’  She  was,  as  ever 
since,  undisguisedly  governed  as  a dependency  won  by  the 
sword. 

Scotland,  joined  to  her  neighbor  on  the  most  honorable  terms, 
preserved  her  dignity  in  retaining  her  constitution  and  laws. 
Her  people,  however,  had  always  been  singularly  turbulent. 
They  had  butchered  their  first  James  in  his  bed-chamber;  had 
rebelled  repeatedly  against  the  second;  had  slain  the  third  on 
the  field  of  battle;  had  broken  the  heart  of  the  fifth  by  their 
disobedience  ; had  imprisoned  Mary,  and  led  her  son  captive. 
The  border  was  a chaos  of  violence;  and  along  the  line  between 
the  Highlands  and  Lowlands  raged  an  incessant  predatory  war. 

England  had  long  been  steadily  advancing.  Men  had  become 
accustomed  to  peaceful  pursuits,  and  irritation  did  not  now  so 
readily  as  in  former  ages  take  the  form  of  rebellion.  From  the 
rising  of  the  northern  earls  against  Elizabeth,  to  the  memorable 
reckoning  against  Charles  I,  seventy  years  had  elapsed  without 
intestine  hostilities.  The  national  wealth  had  greatly  multiplied, 
and  civilization  had  greatly  increased. 

Still,  we  shall  not  forget  the  difference  between  the  rude  and 
thoughtless  boy  and  the  refined  and  accomplished  man.  Masters 
habitually  beat  their  servants,  teachers  their  pupils,  and  hus- 
bands their  wives.  The  offender  in  the  pillory  was  happy  to 
escape  with  life  from  the  shower  of  brickbats  and  paving  stones. 
If  tied  to  the  cart’s  tail,  the  officer  was  implored  to  make  him 
howl.  Pleasure  parties  were  arranged  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
wretched  women  whipped.  Fights,  in  which  gladiators  hacked 
each  other  to  pieces,  Avere  the  delight  of  multitudes.  At  the 
Restoration,  the  glorious  leaders  of  the  Puritan  faith  were  cut 
down  alive  from  the  gallows,  and  quartered  amidst  insults;  while 
others  — Cromwell  among  them  — were  dug  up,  and  exposed  on 
the  gibbet. 


404 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


The  police  were  in  constant  collision  with  ruffians  who  wore 
rapiers  and  daggers.  At  night  bands  of  dissolute  youth  domi- 
neered over  the  streets,  which  were  buried  in  profound  darkness. 
It  was  these  pests  of  London  that  suggested  to  Milton  the  lines: 

‘And  in  luxurious  cities,  when  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers, 

And  injury  and  outrage,  and  when  night 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the  sons 
Of  Belial,  flown  with  insolence  and  wine.’ 

In  the  outcast  quarters  of  the  city,  even  the  warrant  of  the  Chief 
Justice  could  not  be  executed  without  a company  of  musketeers. 
Sanguinary  encounters  with  robbers  were  frequent.  Mounted 
highwaymen  infested  all  the  great  approaches  to  the  metropolis. 

With  the  decline  of  enthusiasm  and  respect,  courtly  manners 
degenerated  into  a base  sensuality.  An  arch  of  triumph  under 
James  I often  represented  obscenities.  On  one  occasion,  the 
king  and  his  royal  brother  of  Denmark  were  carried  to  bed 
drunk.  Hear  a description  of  the  entertainment  — the  masque 
of  the  Queen  of  Sheba: 

‘The  ladies  abandon  their  sobriety,  and  are  seen  to  roll  about  in  intoxication.  . . . 
The  lady  who  did  play  the  Queen's  part  . . . did  carry  most  precious  gifts  to  both  their 
Majesties;  but,  forgetting  the  steppes  arising  to  the  canopy,  overset  her  caskets  into  his 
Danish  Majesties  lap,  and  fell  at  his  feet,  tho  rather  1 think  it  was  in  his  face.  Much 
was  the  hurry  and  confusion;  clothes  and  napkins  were  at  hand,  to  make  all  clean.  His 
Majesty  then  got  up  and  would  dance  with  the  Queen  of  Sheba;  but  he  fell  down  and 
humbled  himself  before  her,  and  was  carried  to  an  inner  chamber  and  laid  on  a bed  of 
state;  which  was  not  a little  defiled  with  the  presents  of  the  Queen  which  had  been 
bestowed  on  his  garments;  such  as  wine,  cream,  jelly,  beverage,  cakes,  spices,  and  other 
good  matters.  The  entertainment  and  show  went  forward,  and  most  of  the  presenters 
went  backward,  or  fell  down;  wine  did  so  occupy  their  upper  chambers.  Now  did 
appear,  in  rich  dress,  Hope,  Faith,  and  Charity:  Hope  did  assay  to  speak,  but  wine  ren- 
dered her  endeavors  so  feeble  that  she  withdrew,  and  hoped  the  king  would  excuse  her 
brevity;  Faith  . . . left  the  court  in  a staggering  condition.  . . . They  were  both  sick 
and  spewing  in  the  lower  hall.  Next  came  Victory,  who  ...  by  a strange  medley  of 
versification  . . . and  after  much  lamentable  utterance,  was  led  away  like  a silly  captive, 
and  laid  to  sleep  in  the  outer  steps  of  the  ante-chamber.  As  for  Peace,  she  most  rudely 
made  war  with  her  olive  branch,  and  laid  on  the  pates  of  those  who  did  oppose  her 
coming." 

Farther  on  we  shall  see  how,  underneath  the  disorderly  bubbles 
at  the  surface,  Puritanism  was  raising  the  national  morality. 

Religion. — The  Reformation  was  incomplete.  It  had  been 
made  in  accordance  with  the  interests  of  its  leaders, — the  king 
and  the  prelates,  who  divided  between  themselves  the  riches  and 
power  of  which  they  had  despoiled  the  popes.  By  a large  body 
of  Protestants  the  alliance  was  regarded  as  a scheme  for  serving 


PURITAN  TRIUMPH. 


405 


two  masters.  It  had  closed  reform,  while  the  greater  part  of  the 
abuses  which  induced  them  to  desire  it  were  continued.  They 
denounced  its  pretensions,  complained  of  its  tyranny.  They 
had  not  thrown  off  one  yoke  in,  order  to  receive  another.  They 
were  not  afraid  to  dissent  from  those  who  had  themselves  dis- 
sented. To  no  purpose  were  they  fined,  imprisoned,  pilloried, 
mutilated;  their  ministers  dismissed,  tracked  by  spies,  prosecuted 
by  usurping  and  rapacious  courts.  They  flourished  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  to  destroy  them,  because  they  lived  honestly,  sustained 
by  the  powerful  ideas  of  God  and  conscience.  Private  life  was 
transformed.  Enthusiasm  spread.  From  individual  manners, 
the  movement  extended  to  public  institutions.  When  the  Long 
Parliament  assembled,  they  were  able  to  resort  to  arms.  Every 
week  the  Commons  occupied  a day  in  deliberating  on  the  prog- 
ress of  religion.  The  external  and  natural  man  was  abolished. 
Recreations  and  ornaments  were  abandoned.  To  wear  love-locks, 
to  starch  a ruff,  to  read  the  Fairy  Queen,  were  sins.  Law  was 
changed  into  a guardian  of  morals: 

‘Though  the  discipline  of  the  church  was  at  an  end,  there  was  nevertheless  an  un- 
common spirit  of  devotion  among  people  in  the  parliament  quarters ; the  Lord’s  day  was 
observed  with  remarkable  strictness,  the  churches  being  crowded  with  numerous  and 
attentive  hearers  three  or  four  times  in  the  day;  the  officers  of  the  peace  patrolled  the 
streets,  and  shut  up  all  publick  houses;  there  was  no  travelling  on  the  road,  or  walking 
in  the  fields,  except  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity.  Religious  exercises  were  set  up  in 
private  families,  as  reading  the  Scriptures,  family  prayer,  repeating  sermons,  and  singing 
of  psalms,  which  was  so  universal  that  you  might  walk  through  the  city  of  London  on  the 
evening  of  the  Lord’s  day,  without  seeing  an  idle  person,  or  hearing  anything  but  the 
voice  of  prayer  or  praise  from  churches  and  private  houses.’ 

All  the  outlets  of  instinctive  nature  were  closed.  In  1644  it  was 
ordained: 

‘ That  no  person  shall  travel,  or  carry  a burden,  or  do  any  worldly  labour,  upon  pen- 
alty of  10s.  for  the  traveller  and  5s.  for  every  burden.  That  no  person  shall  on  the  Lord’s 
<lay  use,  or  be  present  at,  any  wrestling,  shooting,  fowling,  ringing  of  bells  for  pleasure, 
markets,  wakes,  church-ales,  dancing,  games  or  sports  whatsoever,  upon  penalty  of  5s.  to 
every  one  above  fourteen  years  of  age.  And  if  children  are  found  offending  in  the  prem- 
ises, their  parents  or  guardians  to  forfeit  12d.  for  every  offense.  If  the  several  fines  above 
mentioned  cannot  be  levied,  the  offending  party  shall  be  set  in  the  stocks  for  the  space  of 
three  hours.’ 

One  ordinance  directed  that  all  the  May-poles  in  England  should 
be  cut  down.  Later  they  attacked  the  stage.  Theatres  were  to 
be  dismantled,  the  spectators  fined,  the  actors  whipped  at  the 
cart’s-tail.  They  persecuted  pleasure,  the  more  surely  to  punish 
crime.  In  the  army  there  was  a like  theory  and  a like  practice. 
Cromwell’s  Ironsides  were  organized  upon  the  principle  that  a 


406 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


perfect  Christian  makes  a perfect  soldier.  A quartermaster, 
convicted  of  blasphemy,  was  condemned  to  have  his  tongue  bored 
with  a red-hot  iron,  his  sword  broken  over  his  head,  and  himself 
to  be  dismissed.  During  the  expedition  in  Ireland,  soldiers  passed 
their  leisure  hours  in  reading  the  Bible,  in  singing  psalms,  in 
religious  controversy. 

Into  the  primeval  forests  of  America,  exiles,  from  conscience, 
they  carried  the  same  fixed  determination,  the  same  fervent 
faith,  the  same  stoical  spirit.  A rigid  morality  was  raised  into 
a civil  law,  and  the  Bible  was  the  basis  of  the  state.  It  was 
enacted  in  New  Hampshire: 

‘ That  if  any  person  shall  in  the  night  time  break  and  enter  any  dwelling-house  in 
this  State,  with  intent  to  kill,  rob,  steal,  or  to  do  or  perpetrate  any  felony,  the  person  so 
offending  being  thereof  convicted  shall  suffer  death.’ 

Again : 

‘That  no  person  shall  travel  on  the  Lord's  day  between  sun-rising  and  sun-setting, 
unless  from  necessity,  or  to  attend  public  worship,  visit  the  sick,  or  do  some  office  of 
charity,  on  penalty  of  a sum  not  exceeding  six  dollars,  nor  less  than  one.’ 

And: 

‘If  any  person  shall  openly  deny  the  being  of  a God,  or  shall  wilfully  blaspheme  the 
name  of  God,  Jesus  Christ,  or  the  Holy  Ghost,  or  shall  curse  or  reproach  the  word  of 
God,  ...  he  shall  be  punished  by  fine  not  exceeding  fifty  pounds,  and  may  be  bound  to 
good  behavior  for  a term  not  exceeding  one  year.' 

In  Maryland  the  law  declared: 

‘That  if  any  person  shall  hereafter,  within  this  province,  wittingly,  maliciously,  and 
advisedly,  by  writing  or  speaking  blaspheme  or  curse  God,  or  deny  our  Saviour,  Jesus 
Christ,  to  be  the  Son  of  God,  or  shall  deny  the  Holy  Trinity,  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Ghost,  or  the  Godhead  of  any  of  the  three  persons,  or  the  unity  of  the  Godhead,  or  shall 
utter  any  profane  words  concerning  the  Holy  Trinity,  or  any  of  the  persons  thereof,  and 
shall  thereof  be  convicted  by  verdict,  he  shall,  for  the  first  offence,  be  bored  through  the 
tongue,  and  fined  £20  to  be  levied  of  his  body.  And  for  the  second  offence,  the  offender 
shall  be  stigmatized  by  burning  in  the  forehead  with  the  letter  B,  and  fined  £40.  And 
that  for  the  third  offense,  the  offender  shall  suffer  death  without  the  benefit  of  clergy.' 

In  Massachusetts,  a man  was  publicly  whipped  for  singing  a 
profane  song.  A girl,  who  gave  some  roasted  chestnuts  to  a 
boy,  adding  ironically  that  they  would  put  him  into  Paradise, 
was  sentenced  to  ask  pardon  three  times  in  church,  and  to  be 
imprisoned  three  days.  So  does  personal  asceticism  develop 
into  public  tyranny. 

Such  were  the  ‘Precisians’  or  ‘Puritans’ — Protestant  dissent- 
ers, precise  and  combative  minds,  who,  with  the  fundamental 
honesty  of  the  race,  demanded  of  the  Anglicans  a more  search- 
ing and  extensive  reform,  resolved  to  do  all  and  to  bear  all  rather 


PURITAN  INFLUENCE. 


407 


than  be  false  to  their  convictions,  firm  in  suffering  as  scrupulous 
in  belief,  and,  amid  all  the  fluctuations  of  fortune,  leavening  the 
temper  of  the  times  with  a new  conception  of  life  and  of  man. 
If  this  ideal  was,  in  the  end,  warped  and  overwrought,  think  of 
its  genesis.  Puritanism  was  the  product  of  war.  Hence  the 
rigor  of  its  precepts,  its  social  austerity,  its  unbending  creed. 
The  general  intoxication  forced  it  into  total  abstinence.  Only 
thus  could  it  withstand  laxity  and  license.  To  become  belliger- 
ent was  to  become  severe. 

Each  party  — Royalists  and  Episcopalians  in  alliance  against 
the  Puritans — was  in  turn  oppressed  by  the  other.  The  latter, 
in  the  day  of  its  power,  was  as  intolerant  as  had  been  the  former. 
We  hate  with  a will,  when  we  can  hate  at  once  God’s  enemies 
and  our  own.  How  will  it  be  when  power  is  restored  to  the  sup- 
porters of  the  throne  and  Established  Church,  embittered,  not 
instructed,  by  misfortune,  and  fretting  under  restraints  like  a 
checked  and  flooded  stream  ? 

If  now  it  be  asked  what  was  the  worth  and  meaning  of  this 
heroic  sternness,  the  answer  is, — it  accomplished  much,  and  we 
walk  smoothly  over  its  results.  It  enthroned  purity  on  the 
domestic  hearth,  labor  in  the  workshop,  probity  in  the  counting- 
house,  truth  in  the  tribunal;  developed  the  science  of  emigration, 
fertilized  the  desert,  practised  the  virtues  it  exacted;  above  all,  it 
saved  the  national  liberty,  against  the  predominating  Church, 
who,  seeking  to  realize  in  England  the  same  position  as  Roman- 
ism had  occupied  in  Europe,  flung  herself  on  every  occasion  into 
the  arms  of  the  Court,  and  taught  that  no  tyranny  however  gross, 
no  violation  of  the  constitution  however  flagrant,  could  justify 
resistance.1  Little  culture,  indeed;  no  philosophy,  no  sentiment 
of  harmonious  beauty;  but  solid  and  convincing  reasoners,  ener- 
getic men  of  action.  We  can  excuse  the  fanaticism  of  those 
who,  when  the  battle-instinct  is  yet  strong,  are  so  intent  on  the 
essence  of  things,  against  others  intent  on  semblances  and  forms 
divorced  from  reality. 

Not  unmixed  good,  certainly.  The  sun  flings  out  impurities, 
gets  balefully  incrusted  with  spots.  Ideals  can  never  be  com- 
pletely embodied  here.  Not  to  reiterate  what  has  already  been 

1 ‘Eternal  damnation  is  prepared  for  all  impenitent  rebels  in  hell  with  Satan,  the  first 
founder  of  rebellion.' 


408 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


noticed,  one  effect  of  Puritanism  was  to  inflame,  by  its  gloomy 
tenets,  the  zeal  against  witches.  In  the  short  space  of  the  Coim 
monwealth,  more  of  these  unfortunates  perished  than  in  the  whole 
period  before  and  after.  In  Suffolk  sixty  were  hung  in  a single 
year, — a barbarity  to  which  Butler  alludes  in  Hudibras : 

‘Hath  not  this  present  parliament 
A leger  to  the  devil  sent 
Fully  empowered  to  treat  about 
Finding  revolted  witches  out? 

And  has  not  he  within  a year 

Hanged  three-score  of  them  in  one  shire?’ 

The  superstition  grew  into  a panic.  In  Scotland,  controlled  by  a 
system  of  religious  terrorism,  it  obtained  an  absolute  ascendancy. 
In  solemn  synod,  every  minister  was  enjoined  to  appoint  two  of 
the  elders  of  his  parish  as  ‘a  subtle  and  privy  inquisition,’  who 
should  question  all  parishioners  upon  oath  as  to  their  knowledge 
of  witches.  If  the  witch  — commonly  a half-doting  woman  — 
was  obdurate,  the  first  method  of  extorting  confession  was  to 
‘ wake  her.’  Across  her  face  was  bound  an  iron  hoop  with  four 
prongs,  which  were  thrust  into  her  mouth.  It  was  fastened 
behind  to  the  wall,  in  such  a manner  that  the  victim  was  unable 
to  lie  down;  and  in  this  position  she  was  sometimes  kept  for  sew 
eral  days,  carefully  prevented  from  closing  her  eyes  for  a moment 
in  sleep.  To  discover  the  insensible  mark,  which  was  the  sure 
sign  of  guilt,  long  pins  were  thrust  into  her  body.  If  this  was 
ineffectual,  other  and  worse  tortures  were  in  reserve  — a kind  of 
thumb-screw,  or  a frame  in  which  the  lower  limbs  were  inserted, 
then  broken  by  wedges  driven  in  by  a hammer.  The  seeds  of 
the  superstition  were  carried  to  New  England  by  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers.  It  flourished  with  frightful  vigor  in  Massachusetts. 
Cotton  Mather  proclaimed  it,  and  created  a commission.  Those 
who  ventured  to  oppose  the  prosecutions  were  denounced  as 
Sadducees  and  infidels.  Multitudes  were  imprisoned,  others  fled, 
twenty-seven  were  executed.  An  old  man  of  eighty  was  pressed 
to  death.  The  clergy  of  Boston  drew  up  an  address  of  thanks  to 
the  commissioners,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  their  zeal  would 
never  be  relaxed. 

Yet  this  was  orthodoxy  once,  attested  by  an  amount  of  evi- 
dence so  varied  and  so  ample  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of 
doubt ! You  who  would  stifle  the  voice  of  reason,  you  who  deem 


DEVELOPMENT — POETRY. 


409 


another  a heretic  because  his  views  are  different  from  your  own, 
you  who  would  stigmatize  the  professors  of  other  creeds  as  idol- 
atrous,— consider  the  lesson  of  history.  What  is  truth?  Has  it 
any  absolute  criterion?  Your  opinions  are  imagined  to  be  con- 
clusive and  final;  but  have  not  the  finalities  of  yesterday  yielded 
to  the  larger  generalizations  of  to-day  ? What  assurance  that,  in 
the  onward  march  of  the  collective  soul,  your  doctrines  shall  not 
wane  and  vanish  like  the  scattered  dreams  of  your  ancestors? 
Your  faith  assumes  to  be  perfect;  but  what  is  perfection?  The 
realized  anticipations  of  the  present.  But  is  humanity  tottering 
into  the  grave,  or  yet  crawling  out  of  the  cradle  ? Who  shall  set 
a limit  to  the  giant’s  unchained  strength  ? Is  not  man  forever 
defining  himself?  Does  he  not  mould  himself  incessantly  in 
thoughts,  sentiments,  acts?  And,  as  incessantly  progressing  by 
these  determinations,  does  he  not  successively  burst  his  environ- 
ments as  he  assumes  them,  only  to  pass  into  new  ones,  from 
which  he  will  again  escape  in  his  unflagging  and  indefinite 
ascent  ? Through  the  ages  to  be,  as  through  the  ages  gone,  it 
shall  be  asked,  ‘Brethren,  what  of  the  night?'’  while  to  each 
and  to  all  the  same  answer  shall  be  returned,  ‘Lo,  the  morning 
cometh.’ 

Poetry. — We  have  seen  its  ardent  youth  and  its  early  man- 
hood; not  preoccupied,  as  we  are,  with  theories;  happy  in  con- 
templating lovely  objects,  dreaming  of  nothing  else,  and  wishing 
only  that  they  might  be  the  loveliest  possible;  not  that  things 
were  more  beautiful  then,  but  that  men,  in  the  vernal  freshness 
of  the  senses,  found  them  so.  Now  prettiness  takes  the  place  of 
the  beautiful.  To  the  impassioned  succeeds  the  agreeable.  It 
is  no  more  the  overflow  of  images,  compelling  relief  in  words,  but 
the  sentiment  of  gallantry,  turning  a delicate  compliment  and  a 
graceful  phrase.  The  literary  exhaustion  is  manifested  in  verses 
like  these  of  Wither  : 

‘Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die  because  a woman’s  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
’Cause  another’s  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 

If  she  thinks  not  well  of  me, 

What  care  I how  fair  she  be?  . . . 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 

I will  ne’er  the  more  despair: 


410 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


If  she  love  me  (this  believe), 

I will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 

If  she  slight  me  when  I woo, 

I can  scorn  and  let  her  go; 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me. 

What  care  I for  whom  she  be?’ 

But  if  like  the  rest,  he  is  a reader  and  a versifier  rather  than  a 
seer,  he  keeps  close  to  the  best  he  knows,  pure  enough  to  have 
delight  in  nature,  reverent  enough  to  give  praise: 

‘Now  the  glories  of  the  year 
May  be  viewed  at  the  best. 

And  the  earth  doth  now  appear 
In  her  fairest  garments  dress'd: 

Sweetly  smelling  plants  and  flowers 
Do  perfume  the  garden  bowers; 

Hill  and  valley,  wood  and  field, 

Mixed  With  pleasure  profits  yield.’ 

Withal,  he  has  the  dominating  bent, — the  serious  thought  of  the 
long  sad  sleep  beyond  the  dark  gulf  into  which  we  plunge,  un- 
certain of  the  issue: 

‘As  this  my  carnal  robe  grows  old, 

Soil'd,  rent,  and  worn  by  length  of  years. 

Let  me  on  that  by  faith  lay  hold 
Which  man  in  life  immortal  wears: 

So  sanctify  my  days  behind. 

So  let  my  manners  be  refined, 

That  when  my  soul  and  flesh  must  part. 

There  lurk  no  terrors  in  my  heart.’ 

These  are  the  words  of  a Puritan.  We  must  expect  even  less 
substance  in  wits  of  the  court,  cavaliers  of  fashion, — Carew, 
Herrick,  and  Suckling1.  If  the  first  is  destitute  of  noble  ideas, 
he  gives  us  smooth  and  flexible  verse,  mere  perfume  and  dainty 
form,  with  hardly  a gem  amid  the  rubbish-heap  of  trivialities: 

‘He  that  loves  a rosy  cheek, 

Or  a coral  lip  admires. 

Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires, 

As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 

So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 

Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts,  with  love  combined, 

Kindle  never-dying  fires; 

Where  these  are  not,  I despise 
Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes.’ 

No  fire  in  the  second,  but  light;  no  passion,  but  sensuous  reverie, 
with  a radical  indelicacy  of  fancy  and  a garrulous  egotism.  Let 


POETRY  — HERRICK  — SUCKLING. 


411 


us  hear  the  exquisite  who  wrote  twelve  hundred  little  poems  in 
Arcadian  repose,  while  public  riot  was  drowning  the  voices  of 
some  and  driving  others  to  madness: 

‘Some  ask’d  me  where  the  Rubies  grew: 

And  nothing  did  I say, 

But  with  my  Anger  pointed  to 
The  lips  of  Julia. 

Some  ask’d  how  Pearls  did  grow,  and  where: 

Then  spoke  I to  my  girl, 

To  part  her  lips,  and  shew  me  there 
The  quarrelets  of  Pearl.’ 

Again : 

‘Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I cry, 

Full  and  fair  ones;  come  and  buy: 

If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 
They  do  grow?  I answer,  there 
Where  my  Julia’s  lips  do  smile; — 

There’s  the  land,  or  cherry-isle, 

Whose  plantations  fully  show 
All  the  year  where  cherries  grow.’ 

It  is  not  the  inner  character  of  things  which  moves  him,  but  the 
sense  of  bodily  loveliness,  which  is  perilously  acute,  nor  easily 
restrained  within  bounds  by  artistic  tact.  Where  is  the  mount- 
ing melody  of  Burns  or  Shelley  ? Even  at  his  prayers,  his  spirit 
is  mundane: 

‘When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 

And  the  world  is  drown'd  in  sleep, 

Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fees, 

And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  I 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill, 

Has,  or  none,  or  little  skill. 

Meet  for  nothing  but  to  kill, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me!’ 

The  third,  handsome,  rich,  and  prodigal,  was  a Royalist  gentle- 
man, and  as  such,  wishing  to  try  his  hand  at  imagination  and 
style,  was  able  to  write  in  liquid  numbers  a love-song  that  was 
in  sympathy  with  the  age: 

‘Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 


412 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Will,  when  speaking  well  can’t  win, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move: 

This  cannot  take  her. 

If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her!’ 

He  has  none  of  the  penetrating  faculty  which  opens  the  invisible 
door  of  obscure,  endless  depths,  leads  us  to  the  centre,  and  leaves 
us  to  gather  what  more  we  may  of  the  treasure  of  pure  gold.  He 
has  only  fancy,  which  stays  at  externals.  Thus  : 

‘Her  feet  beneath  her  pettiooat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light,’ 1 

Again: 

‘Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 

Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin, 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly.'  2 

The  real  bright  being  of  the  lip  is  there  in  an  instant,  but  it  is  all 
outside;  no  expression,  no  mind.  Now  hear  imagination  speak: 

‘Lamp  of  life,  thy  lips  are  burning 
Through  the  veil  that  seems  to  hide  them, 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  thin  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them.'3 

There  is  no  levity  here.  He  who  sees  into  the  heart  of  things 
sees  too  far,  too  darkly,  too  solemnly,  too  earnestly,  to  smile. 

A second  mark  of  decadence  is  the  affectation  of  poets,  their 
involved  obscurity  of  style,  their  ingenious  absurdities,  their 
conceits.  They  desire  to  display  their  skill  and  wit  in  yoking 
together  heterogeneous  ideas,  in  justifying  the  unnatural,  in  con- 
verting life  into  a puzzle  and  a dream.  They  are  characterized 
by  the  philosophizing  spirit,  the  activity  of  the  intellect  rather 
than  that  of  the  emotions.  The  prevalent  taste  is  to  trace  re- 
semblances that  are  fantastic,  to  strain  after  novelty  and  surprise. 
Thus  Donne,  earliest  of  the  school,  says  of  a sea- voyage: 

‘There  note  they  the  ship’s  sicknesses,— the  mast 
Shaked  with  an  ague,  and  the  hold  and  waist 
With  a salt  dropsy  clogged.’ 

When  a flea  bites  him  and  his  mistress,  he  says: 

‘This  flea  is  you  and  I,  and  this 
Our  marriage  bed  and  marriage  temple  is. 

Though  Parents  grudge,  and  you,  w’are  met, 

'Ballad  upon  a Wedding.  *Ibid.  3 Shelley. 


POETRY  — DONNE  — HERBERT. 


413 


And  cloyster'd  in  the  living  walls  of  jet. 

Though  use  make  you  apt  to  kill  me, 

Let  not  to  that  selfe- murder  added  be, 

And  sacrilege,  three  sins  in  killing  three.1 

We  find  little  to  admire,  and  nothing  to  love.  We  see  that  far- 
fetched similes,  extravagant  metaphors,  are  not  here  occasional 
blemishes,  but  the  substance.  He  should  have  given  us  simple 
images,  simply  expressed;  for  he  loved  and  suffered  much:  but 
fashion  was  stronger  than  nature.  Much  in  this  manner,  though 
never  in  so  light  a humor,  is  the  poetry  of  Herbert,  whose  quaint- 
ness is  vitally  connected  with  essential  beauty  and  sweetness  of 
soul.  Let  him  live  in  these  tender  and  beautiful  lines: 

‘Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky; 

The  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night. 

For  thou  must  die.’ 

And  in  these,  than  which  no  profounder  were  uttered  in  the 
Elizabethan  age: 

‘More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he'll  take  notice  of:  in  every  path 
He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him. 

When  sickness  makes  him  pale  and  wan 
O mighty  Love!  Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him.' 

To  the  same  class  of  verse  — concoctions  of  novel  and  remote 
analogies,  belongs  The  Purple  Island  of  Fletcher,  five  cantos  of 
allegorical  anatomy  and  one  of  psychology,  a languid  sing-song 
of  laborious  riddles.  Other  instances  of  the  change,  equally 
frigid  if  less  extravagant,  are  Wotton’s  Character  of  a Happy 
Life , Bacon’s  Life  of  Man,  Brook’s  Treatise  of  Religion,  which 
are  noticed  only  as  indications  that  the  sentiment  of  truth  was 
encroaching  upon  the  sentiment  of  beauty,  that  the  imaginary 
figures  of  art  were  giving  way  to  the  precise  formulas  of  logic. 

Apart  from  the  crowd  of  sedulous  imitators,  is  one  who, 
preserving  something  of  the  energy  and  thrill  of  the  original 
inspiration,  refuses  to  be  perverted;  a Scot, — Drummond  of 
Hawthornden, — whose  private  happiness  was  suddenly  ruined, 
and  whose  public  hopes  were  slowly  wasted;  a brooding,  silent, 
tragic  soul,  altogether  too  serious  to  be  artificial,  with  the  funda- 
mental Saxon  idea  of  man  and  of  existence: 

‘This  world  a hunting  is. 

The  prey  poor  man,  the  Nimrod  fierce  is  death; 

His  speedy  greyhounds  are 


414 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Lust,  sickness,  envy,  care. 

Strife  that  ne'er  falls  amiss, 

With  all  those  ills  which  haunt  us  while  we  breathe. 

Now  if  by  chance  we  fly 
Of  these  the  eager  chase, 

Old  age  with  stealing  pace 

Casts  up  his  nets,  and  there  we  panting  die.’ 

There  are  moments  when  the  greatest  must  feel  and  speak  thus, 
troubled  by  the  infinite  obscurity  that  embraces  our  short,  glimmer- 
ing life,  which  seems  then  but  a madness,  a sorrow,  a phantom : 
behind,  a submerged  continent;  before,  oblivion  and  dust: 

‘If  crost-  with  all  mishaps  be  my  poor  life, 

If  one  short  day  I never  spend  in  mirth, 

If  my  sprite  with  itself  holds  lasting  strife, 

If  sorrow's  death  is  but  a new  sorrow's  birth; 

If  this  vain  world  be  but  a sable  stage 

Where  slave-born  man  plays  to  the  scoffing  stars; 

If  youth  be  toss’d  with  love,  with  weakness  age, 

If  knowledge  serve  to  hold  our  thoughts  in  wars; 

If  time  can  close  the  hundred  mouths  of  fame, 

And  make  what  long  since  past  like  that  to  be; 

If  virtue  only  be  an  idle  name, 

If  I,  when  I was  born,  was  bom  to  die; 

Why  seek  I to  prolong  these  loathsome  days? 

The  fairest  rose  in  shortest  time  decays.’ 

At  the  end  of  one  intellectual  epoch,  and  at  the  beginning  of 
another,  appeared  one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  these  brain-poets, 
Abraham  Cowley,  a marvel  of  precocity,  widely  known  at 
fifteen,  and,  like  Reynolds  the  painter,  accidentally  determined  to 
a particular  direction: 

‘ How  this  love  of  poetry  came  to  be  produced  in  me  so  early  is  a hard  question.  I 
believe  I can  tell  the  particular  little  chance  which  filled  my  head  first  with  such  chimes 
of  verse  as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there ; for  I remember  when  I began  to  read,  and 
to  take  some  pleasure  in  it,  there  was  wont  to  lie  in  my  mother's  parlor  (I  know  not  by 
what  accident,  for  she  herself  never  in  her  life  read  any  book  but  of  devotion)  . . . 
Spenser's  works;  this  volume  I happened  to  fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with 
the  stories  of  the  knights,  monsters,  giants,  and  brave  houses  which  I found  everywhere 
there  (though  my  understanding  had  very  little  to  do  with  all  this),  and  by  degrees,  with 
the  tinkling  of  the  rhymes  and  the  dance  of  the  numbers,  I had  read  him  all  over  before 
I was  twelve  years  old,  and  was  thus  made  a poet  almost  immediately.’ 

He  read  much,  learned  much,  wrote  much;  but  while  he  is  always 
either  ingenious  or  profound,  he  is  usually  wearisome.  Always, 
on  the  watch  for  novelty,  he  is  seldom  natural,  never  pathetic,  if 
ever  sublime.  His  best  performances  are  his  translations  from 
Anacreon,  which  are  but  the  literature  of  pleasure — the  idle  joys 
of  the  banquet  and  the  wine  circle.  Still,  it  is  refreshing  to  see 
the  beholder,  once  a partaker,  abandoned  to  the  fresh  impulses 


POETRY  — CHANGE  IN  THE  DRAMA. 


415 


of  an  eager  delight,  quite  forgetful  of  the  skeleton  that  stands 
there  to  scare  him  from  his  roses  and  his  cups: 

‘The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 

And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again, 

The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair. 

The  sea  itself,  which  one  would  think 
Should  have  hut  little  need  of  drink, 

Drinks  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 

So  fill'd  that  they  overflow  the  cup. 

The  busy  sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By  its  drunken*  fiery  face  no  less) 

Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he’s  done, 

The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun. 

They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light. 

They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 

Nothing  in  nature's  sober  found, 

But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 

Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high, 

Fill  all  the  glasses  there,  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I, 

Why,  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why?’ 

It  is  the  waste  of  power  in  these  men,  not  the  want  of  it;  the 
abuse  of  talent,  not  the  absence  of  it,  which  we  lament.  To  this 
they  owe  their  poetical  effacement  with  posterity.  He  who  pays 
court  to  temporary  prejudices,  must  content  himself  with  ‘a 
deciduous  laurel,  of  which  the  verdure  in  its  spring  may  be 
bright  and  gay,  but  which  time  will  continually  steal  from  his 
brows.’ 

The  Puritan  conception  of  life  was  not  one  to  nourish  the 
eloquence  of  a ‘divine  madness’;  yet,  Puritanism,  in  its  higher 
attributes,  in  its  moral  elevation,  was  to  have  its  monument,  the 
work  of  a mighty  and  superb  mind, — Milton,  the  prince  of 
scholars,  the  impassioned  devotee  of  virtue,  a poetic  seer  of  the 
antique  type,  with  a strong  affinity  for  the  genius  of  Greece 
and  of  Rome,  and  able  to  estimate  all  the  Renaissance  could 
tell  or  teach. 

The  Muses  had  taken  sanctuary  in  the  theatres.  England, 
indeed,  was  not  to  produce  another  Hamlet.  Such  heights 
could  not  be  maintained.  As  the  unknown  was  explored,  the 
romantic  ideal  was  fading.  Puritanism  was  hardening  and  nar- 
rowing, while  it  was  ennobling,  life.  Imagination  was  losing  its 
buoyancy  and  bloom.  The  natural  was  giving  place  to  the  arti- 
ficial. But  the  infection  that  tainted  lyric  and  didactic  poetry, 
affected  in  a less  degree  the  drama,  which  even  in  its  decay  was 


416 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


still  magnificent,  and,  with  an  altered  tone  and  manner,  retained 
much  of  the  warmth,  mellowness,  and  reality  of  painting.  Only 
at  intervals  does  the  chorus  equal  the  solo  of  their  matchless 
leader.  The  great  elements  in  their  natures  are  imperfectly  har- 
monized. All  grope  amid  qualified  successes.  All  are  noble  in 
parts  but  without  any  general  effect  of  nobleness.  Jonson,  the 
foremost,  is  but  partial.  He  paints,  not  the  whole  of  human 
nature,  but  a feature.  His  characters  are  not  men  and  women 
as  they  are,  but  as  they  may  be  when  mastered  by  a special  bias 
or  humor. 

However,  to  be  tenacious  of  what  is  grand  and  lofty  is  more 
praiseworthy  than  to  delight  in  what  is  low  and  disagreeable. 
None  refuse  wholly  the  color  of  the  low  world  around  them. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  £ studiously  indecent.’  The  object 
is  to  excite,  at  any  cost,  the  passions  of  an  audience  craving  crudi- 
ties and  horrors.  Their  young  men  are  the  ‘ bloods  ’ of  the  Stuart 
Court.  The  older  and  graver  are  foul.  It  they  paint  a bad  woman, 
she  is  monstrous;  if  a good  one,  she  is  unreal,  as  if  the  one  ex- 
treme were  to  compensate  or  atone  for  the  other.  We  are  willing' 
to  accept  this  transcendental  conception  of  goodness  as  a redeem- 
ing merit;  for  that  stature  appears  in  everything  which  we  pro- 
foundly revere  and  love,  and  only  by  a certain  infinitude  which 
belongs  to  it  are  we  drawn  into  perpetual  aspiration.  These  two 
writers  were  fellow-laborers,  brothers  in  heart  as  well  as  brothers 
in  work;  the  first,  slow,  solid,  and  painstaking;  the  second,  rapid, 
volatile,  and  inventive.  The  first  is  the  smoother,  sweeter;  the 
second,  the  more  fertile  and  forceful.  Both  agree  in  impurity, 
the  one  deliberately  impure,  the  other  heedlessly  so.  Of  the 
fifty-two  plays  in  the  collection  that  bears  their  names  jointly, 
there  is  scarcely  one  that  has  not  marks  of  blight  — haste,  extrav- 
agance, or  grossness.  If  we  seek  for  a burst  of  passion,  a beauti- 
ful sentiment,  a brilliant  dialogue,  or  a vivid  picture,  we  shall 
find  it.  Amid  tavern-rackets,  the  clash  of  swords,  and  the  howl 
of  slaughter,  they  cut  life  into  scenes  of  shame  and  terror,  yet 
carry  before  the  footlights  touching  and  poetical  figures  that 
would  seem  to  place  them  on  the  open  borders  of  the  infinite. 
Thus  Philaster,  speaking  of  Bellario,  whom  he  has  taken  for  a 
page,  but  who  is  no  other  than  a maiden  that  has  disguised  her- 
self in  order  to  be  near  him,  says: 


POETRY  — BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


417 


‘I  found  him  sitting  by  a fountain-side, 

Of  which  he  borrowed  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 

And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears. 

A garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself, 

Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 

Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  one:  But  ever  when  he  turned 
His  tender  eyes  upon  them,  he  would  weep, 

As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 

Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I asked  him  all  his  story. 

He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died. 

Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 

Which  gave  him  roots:  and  of  the  crystal  springs. 

Which  did  not  stop  their  courses;  and  the  sun. 

Which  still,  he  thanked  him,  yielded  him  light. 

Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  shew 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold. 

Did  signify;  and  how  all  ordered  thus. 

Expressed  his  grief;  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wished;  so  that  methought  I could 
Have  studied  it.’ 1 

When  she  is  detected,  an  explanation  is  demanded,  and  she  re- 
counts her  hopeless  attachment: 

‘My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue;  and,  as  I did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised;  but  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found;  till,  sitting  in  my  window, 

Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I saw  a god, 

I thought, — but  it  was  you, — enter  our  gates. 

My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 
As  I had  puffed  it  forth  and  sucked  it  in 
Like  breath.  Then  was  I called  away  in  haste 
To  entertain  you.  Never  was  a man, 

Heaved  from  a sheep-cote  to  a sceptre  raised, 

So  high  in  thoughts  as  I;  you  left  a kiss 
Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I mean  to  keep 
From  you  forever.  I did  hear  you  talk, 

Far  above  singing!  After  you  were  gone, 

I grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so.  Alas!  I found  it  love; 

Yet  far  from  lust;  for  could  I but  have  lived 
In  presence  of  you,  I had  had  my  end. 

, For  this  I did  delude  my  noble  father 

With  a feigned  pilgrimage,  and  dressed  myself 
In  habit  of  a boy:  and  for  I knew 
My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I was  passed  hope 
Of  having  you.  And,  understanding  well 
That  when  I made  discovery  of  my  sex, 

I could  not  stay  with  you,  I made  a vow, 


27 


lPhilaster;  or,  Love  Lies  Bleeding. 


418 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


By  all  the  most  religious  things  a maid 
Could  call  together,  never  to  he  known, 

Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  eyes, 

For  other  than  I seemed,  that  I might  ever 
Abide  with  you.' 1 

Here  are  feminine  innocence  with  feminine  power,  ethereal  soft- 
ness with  martyr  heroism.  Few  have  equalled,  fewer  have  ex- 
celled, this  superior  fineness  of  perception.  Again,  what  could 
be  more  angelic  than  the  modesty  of  Amoret,  the  faithful  shep- 
herdess ? — 

‘Fairer  far 

Than  the  chaste  blushing  morn,  or  that  fair  star 
That  guides  the  wand' ring  seaman  thro1  the  deep.1  2 

She  is  transported  by  her  tenderness,  as  her  lover  by  his  violence. 
Persuaded  that  she  is  unchaste, he  strikes  her  to  the  ground  with 
his  sword,  and  casts  her  into  a well,  but  the  god  lets  fall  into  the 
wound  ‘a  drop  from  his  watery  locks,’  and,  recovering,  she  goes 
in  search  of  her  Perigot  — 

‘Speak  if  thou  he  here,  . . . 

Thy  Amoret,  thy  dear, 

Calls  on  thy  loved  name.  . . . ’Tis  thy  friend. 

Thy  Amoret;  come. hither  to  give  end 
To  these  consumings.  Look  up,  gentle  boy, 

I have  forgot  those  pains  and  dear  annoy 
I suffer’d  for  thy  sake,  aud  am  content 
To  be  thy  love  again.  Why  hast  thou  rent 
Those  curled  locks,  where  I have  often  hung 
Ribbons,  and  damask  roses,  and  have  flung 
Waters  distill1  d to  make  thee  fresh  and  gay. 

Sweeter  than  nosegays  on  a bridal  day? 

Why  dost  thou  cross  thine  arms,  and  hang  thy  face 
Down  to  thy  bosom,  letting  fall  apace, 

From  those  two  little  Heav’ns,  upon  the  ground, 

Show’rs  of  more  price,  more  orient,  and  more  round. 

Than  those  that  hang  upon  the  moon’s  pale  brow? 

Cease  these  complainings,  shepherd!  I am  now 
The  same  I ever  was,  as  kind  and  free, 

And  can  forgive  before  you  ask  of  me: 

Indeed,  I can  and  will.1 

At  last  the  shepherd,  after  he  has  wounded  her,  and  a nymph  has 
cured  her,  is  disabused,  and  throws  himself  on  his  knees  before 
her.  In  spite  of  all  he  has  done,  she  is  unchanged: 

‘I  am  thy  love! 

Thy  Amoret,  for  ever  more  thy  love! 

Strike  once  more  on  my  naked  breast,  I'll  prove 
As  constant  still.  Oh,  cou’dst  thou  love  me  yet, 

How  soon  could  I my  former  griefs  forget ! 1 

1 Pliilaster:  or,  Love  Lies  Bleeding. 

2 The  Faithful  Shepherdess , by  Fletcher  alone,  who  survived  his  friend  ten  years.  The 
joint  productions  of  the  two  are  usually  estimated  at  fifteen. 


POETRY  — BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


419 


Now  hear  the  resounding  talk  of  Memnon: 

‘ I know  no  court  but  martial, 

No  oily  language  but  the  shock  of  arms, 

No  dalliance  but  with  death,  no  lofty  measures 
But  weary  and  sad  marches,  cold  and  hunger, 

’Lamms  at  midnight  Valor's  self  would  shake  at; 

Yet,  I ne’er  shrunk.  Balls  of  consuming  wildfire, 

That  licked  men  up  like  lightning  have  I laughed  at, 

And  tossed  'em  back  again,  like  children's  trifles. 

Upon  the  edge  of  my  enemies’  swords 

I have  marched  like  whirlwinds,  Fury  at  this  hand  waiting. 

Death  at  my  right,  Fortune  my  forlorn  hope: 

When  I have  grappled  with  Destruction, 

And  tugged  with  pale-faced  Ruin,  Night  and  Mischief, 

Frighted  to  see  a new  day  break  in  blood.' 1 

These  contrasts  are  characteristic, — timidity,  grace,  devotion, 
patience;  boldness,  fury,  contempt  for  consequences,  concern  only 
for  the  wild,  reckless  whim  of  the  moment.  Sometimes  the 
heroic  spirit  appears,  not  as  a mere  flash,  but  as  a character. 
When  the  Egyptians,  to  propitiate  the  mighty  Caesar,  bring  him 
Pompey’s  head,  he  says  nobly,  grandly,  of  his  mortal  enemy: 

‘Egyptians,  dare  ye  think  your  highest  pyramids, 

Built  to  out-dure  the  sun,  as  you  suppose, 

Where  your  unworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes, 

Are  monuments  fit  for  him?  No,  brood  of  Nilus, 

Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven. 

No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories, 

But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness; 

To  which  I leave  him.'2 

Scattered  all  over  these  dramas  are  exquisite  lyrics,  luxuriant 
descriptions,  which  show  the  poet  greater  than  the  dramatist. 
He  who  would  have  left  the  hoof-prints  of  unclean  beasts  in 
Paradise,  could  sing,  in  the  rebound  from  sportive  excess: 

‘Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 

As  short  as  are  the  nights 
Wherein  you  spend  your  folly! 

There’s  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 

If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy: 

O sweetest  melancholy! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 

A sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 

A look  that’s  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 

A tongue  chain'd  up  without  a sound! 

Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves. 

Places  which  pale  passion  loves! 

Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  hous’d,  save  bats  and  owls! 


1 The  Mad  Lover. 


*Tlie  False  One. 


420 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


A midnight  bell,  a parting  groan, 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon; 

Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a still  gloomy  valley; 

Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy.’ 

He  who  sold  his  birthright  with  posterity  for  the  loathsome  pot- 
tage of  contemporary  praise,  could,  in  his  diviner  moods,  regale 
the  soul  with  medicinal  sweets.  For  example,  how  charming  are 
the  aspects  of  his  landscape,  of  the  dewy  verdant  grove,  where 
on  a summer  night,  after  their  custom,  the  young  men  and  girls 
go  to  gather  flowers  and  plight  their  troth- 

‘Thro’  yon  same  bending  plain 
That  flings  his  arm  down  to  the  main, 

And  thro1  these  thick  woods,  have  I run, 

Whose  bottom  never  kiss’d  the  sun 
Since  the  lusty  spring  began.  . . . 

For  to  that  holy  wood  is  consecrate 
A virtuous  well,  about  whose  flow’ry  banks 
The  nimble-footed  fairies  dance  their  rounds. 

By  the  pale  moon-shine,  dipping  oftentimes 
Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 
From  dying  flesh,  and  dull  mortality. 

By  this  fair  fount  hath  many  a shepherd  sworn 
And  given  away  his  freedom,  many  a troth 
Been  plight,  which  neither  Envy  nor  old  Time 
Could  ever  break,  with  many  a chaste  kiss  given 
In  hope  of  coming  happiness:  by  this 
Fresh  fountain  many  a blushing  maid 
Hath  crowned  the  head  of  her  long-loved  shepherd 
With  gaudy  flowers,  whilst  he  happy  sung 
Lays  of  his  love  and  dear  captivity. 

See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 
Ev’ry  little  flower  that  is; 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads 
Like  a rope  of  crystal  beads. 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  Night  from  underground.’ 

In  Massinger  there  is  the  same  deplorable  evil  — licentious  inci- 
dent. But  we  remember  that  decorum  was  then  unknown,  and 
that  his  vital  sympathies  were  for  justice  and  virtue.  He  sang, 
like  the  nightingale,  darkling.  His  life  was  spent  in  conflict  and 
distress.  Hence  nowhere  is  he  so  great  as  when  he  describes  the 
struggles  of  the  brave  through  trial  to  victory,  the  unmerited 
sufferings  of  the  pure,  and  the  righteous  terrors  of  conscience. 
If  ever  his  placid  spirit  rises  to  ecstasy,  the  ecstasy  is  moral. 
Passages  like  the  following  are  the  best  of  him,  ethically  and 
poetically: 


POETRY  — MASSINGER  — FORD, 


421 


‘Look  on  the  poor 

With  gentle  eyes,  for  in  such  habits,  often, 

Angels  desire  an  alms.’ 

‘By  these  blessed  feet 

That  pace  the  paths  of  equity,  and  tread  boldly 
On  the  stiff  neck  of  tyrannous  oppression, 

By  these  tears  by  which  I bathe  them,  I conjure  you 
With  pity  to  look  on  me.’ 

‘Happy  are  those 

That  knowing  in  their  births,  they  are  subject  to 
Uncertain  changes,  are  still  prepared  and  armed 
For  either  fortune.’ 

‘When  good  men  pursue 
The  path  marked  out  by  virtue,  the  blest  saints 
With  joy  look  on  it,  and  seraphic  angels 
Clap  their  celestial  wings  in  heavenly  plaudits.1 

‘As  you  have 

A soul  moulded  from  heaven,  and  do  desire 
To  have  it  made  a star  there,  make  the  means 
Of  your  ascent  to  that  celestial  height 
Virtue  mingled  with  brave  action:  they  draw  near 
The  nature  and  the  essence  of  the  gods 
Who  imitate  their  goodness.1 1 

More  intense,  though  less  genial,  is  the  sombre  and  retiring  Ford, 
the  poet  not  merely  of  the  heart  but  of  the  broken  heart, — the 
heart  worn,  tortured,  and  torn.  His  tragedies  surprise,  stun,  per- 
plex, by  the  overpowering  force  of  a passion  which  suggests 
kinship  to  insanity.  The  noblest  is  The  Broken  Heart.  Penthea, 
whose  soul  is  pledged  to  Orgilus,  permits  herself,  from  duty  or 
submission,  to  be  led  to  other  nuptials,  and  finds  the  source  of 
life  dried  up.  Only  the  marriage  of  the  heart  is,  in  her  eyes, 
genuine ; the  other  is  moral  infidelity.  In  the  depths  of  her 
despair,  she  says,  not  bitterly,  but  sadly: 

‘My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down;  the  sands  are  spent: 

For  by  an  inward  messenger,  I feel 

The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain.  . . . 

Glories  of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams, 

And  shadows  soon  decaying:  on  the  stage 
Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length; 

But  varied  pleasures  sweetened  in  the  mixture, 

But  tragical  in  issue.  . . . 

How  weary  I am  of  a lingering  life, 

Who  count  the  best  a misery.  . . . 

That  remedy  must  be  a winding-sheet,  a fold  of  lead, 

And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth.1 

1 Only  eighteen  of  his  thirty-seven  plays  are  extant.  The  best  known  are  The  Virgin 
Martyr , The  Fatal  Dowry , The  Duke  of  Milan , A Mew  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts.  The  last 
has  yet  occasional  representation,  and  contains  the  famous  character  of  Sir  Giles  Over- 
reach. 


422 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


In  the  end  she  becomes  mad,  sinking  continually  under  the  incur- 
able grief,  the  fatal  thought: 

‘Sure,  if  we  were  all  sirens,  we  should  sing  pitifully, 

And  'twere  a comely  music,  when  in  parts 
One  sung  another's  knell;  the  turtle  sighs 
When  he  hath  lost  his  mate;  and  yet  some  say 
He  must  be  dead  first:  ’tis  a fine  deceit 
To  pass  away  in  a dream!  indeed,  I’ve  slept 
With  mine  eyes  open,  a great  while.  No  falsehood 
Equals  a broken  faith;  there’s  not  a hair 
Sticks  on  my  head,  but,  like  a leaden  plummet, 

It  sinks  me  to  the  grave:  I must  creep  thither; 

The  journey  is  not  long.’ 

Calantha,  after  enduring  the  most  crushing  calamities,  concealed 
under  a show  of  mirth,  breaks  under  the  terrible  tension,  and  dies 
— without  a tear: 

‘Death  shall  not  separate  us.  Oh,  my  lords, 

I but  deceived  your  eyes  with  antic  gesture, 

When  one  news  strait  came  huddling  on  another 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death:  still  I danced  forward; 

But  it  struck  home  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 

Be  such  mere  women,  who  with  shrieks  and  outcries 
Can  vow  a present  end  to  all  their  sorrows, 

Yet  live  to  court  new  pleasures,  and  outlive  them: 

They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heart-strings: 

Let  me  die  smiling.’ 

There  is  the  same  sad  strain  in  his  few  songs,  though  subdued^ 
as: 

‘Crowns  may  flourish  and  decay, 

Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away. 

Youth  may  revel,  yet  it  must 
Lie  down  in  a bed  of  dust.’ 1 

And: 

‘Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows,  charmed  in  sleep! 

Though  the  eyes  be  overtaken, 

Yet  the  heart  doth  ever  waken 
Thoughts  chained  up  in  busy  snares 
Of  continual  woes  and  cares: 

Love  and  griefs  are  so  exprest, 

As  they  rather  sigh  than  rest. 

Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows,  charmed  in  sleep.’2 

Of  all  these  later  dramatists,  the  most  Shakespearean  is  Webster, 
an  artist  of  agony.  But  one  has  seen  farther  into  the  dark,  woful, 
and  diabolical.  He  calls  one  of  his  heroines  The  WJiite  Devilf 


1 The  Broken  Heart. 


2 The  Lover's  Melancholy. 


POETRY  — WEBSTER. 


423 


Vittoria  Corombona,  an  Italian.  Her  mate  is  a duke,  an  adulter- 
ous lover,  another  devil,  to  whom  she  says: 

‘To  pass  away  the  time,  I’ll  tell  your  "race 
A dream  I had  last  night.  . . . 

Methought  I walk’d  about  the  mid  of  night, 

Into  a church-yard,  where  a goodly  yew-tree 
Spread  her  large  root  in  ground.  Under  that  yew, 

As  I sat  sadly  leaning  on  a grave 
Checquer’d  with  cross-sticks,  there  came  stealing  in 
Your  duchess  and  my  husband;  one  of  them 
A pick-axe  bore,  th'  other  a rusty  spade, 

And  in  rough  terms  they  'gan  to  challenge  me 
About  this  yew.  . . . 

They  told  me  my  intent  was  to  root  up 

That  well-known  yew,  and  plant  i’  th’  stead  of  it 

A wither’d  black-thorn:  and  for  that  they  vow’d 

To  bury  me  alive.  My  husband  straight 

With  pick-axe  ’gan  to  dig;  and  your  fell  duchess 

With  shovel , like  a fury , voided  out 

The  earth,  and  scattered  bones ; Lord,  how,  methought, 

I trembled,  and  yet  for  all  this  terror 
I could  not  pray.  . . . 

When  to  my  rescue  there  arose,  methought 
A whirlwind,  which  let  fall  a massy  arm 
From  that  strong  plant ; 

And  both  were  struck  dead  by  that  sacred  yew. 

In  that  base  shallow  grave  which  ivas  their  due.' 

The  import  is  clear,  and  her  brother  says,  aside: 

‘ Excellent  devil!  she  hath  taught  him  in  a dream 
To  make  away  his  duchess  and  her  husband.' 

Her  husband  is  strangled,  his  wife  is  poisoned,  and  she,  accused 
of  both  crimes,  is  brought  before  the  tribunal.  She  defies  her 
judges: 

‘To  the  point. 

Find  me  guilty,  sever  head  from  body. 

We'll  part  good  friends:  I scorn  to  hold  my  life 
At  yours,  or  any  man’s  entreaty,  sir.  . . . 

These  are  but  feigned  shadows  of  my  evils; 

Terrify  babes,  my  lord,  with  painted  devils; 

I am  past  such  needless  palsy.  For  your  names 
Of  whore  and  murderess,  they  proceed  from  you, 

As  if  a man  should  spit  against  the  wind; 

The  filth  returns  in's  face.’ 

More  insulting  at  the  dagger’s  point: 

‘Yes,  I shall  welcome  death 
As  princes  do  some  great  ambassadors; 

I’ll  meet  thy  weapon  half  way.  . . . ’Twas  a manly  blow; 

The  next  thou  giv’st,  murder  some  sucking  infant; 

And  then  thou  wilt  be  famous.’ 

Another  is  the  DucheSs  of  Malfi,  who  has  secretly  married  her 


424 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — FEATURES. 


steward.  Her  enraged  brother  determines  to  destroy  her  hus- 
band and  children,  resolves  to  kill  her,  but  will  first  torture  her. 
He  comes  to  her  in  the  dark,  pretends  to  be  reconciled,  speaks 
affectionately,  offers  her  his  hand,  but  gives  her  a dead  man’s, 
then  suddenly  exhibits  a group  of  waxen  figures,  covered  with 
wounds  to  represent  her  slaughtered  family.  Then  appears  a 
company  of  madmen,  who  leap  and  howl;  at  last,  with  execu- 
tioners and  a coffin,  a grave-digger,  whose  taunting  talk  is  of  the 
charnel-house.  Sensibility  dies.  Asked  of  what  she  is  thinking, 
she  replies,  with  fixed  gaze: 

‘Of  nothing: 

When  I muse  thus,  1 sleep.  . . . 

Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  another 
In  the  other  world?  . . . 

Oh,  that  it  were  possible  we  might 

But  hold  some  two  days’  conference  with  the  dead! 

From  them  I should  learn  somewhat,  I am  sure, 

1 never  shall  know  here.  1*11  tell  thee  a miracle; 

I am  not  mad  yet.  . . . 

The  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten  brass. 

The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur,  yet  I am  not  mad.’ 

Told  that  she  is  to  be  strangled,  she  replies,  with  brave,  quiet 
dignity: 

‘I  pray  thee  look  thou  giv’st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold;  and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.  . . . 

Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 

Yet  stay,  heaven  gates  are  not  so  highly  arched 
As  princes'1  palaces;  they  that  enter  there 
Must  go  upon  their  knees.  . . . 

Go,  tell  my  brothers  when  I am  laid  out; 

They  then  may  feed  in  quiet.’ 

After  this,  her  servant,  the  duke  and  his  confidant,  the  cardinal 
and  his  mistress,  are  poisoned  or  assassinated.  To  the  dying,  in 
the  midst  of  this  butchery,  what  is  the  state  of  humanity?  A 
troubled  dream,  a nightmare,  a clashing  destiny,  and,  at  the  end 
of  all,  a void: 

‘We  are  only  like  dead  walls  or  vaulted  graves. 

That,  ruin’d,  yield  no  echo.  Fare  you  well.  . . . 

O,  this  gloomy  world!’ 

In  what  a shadow,  or  deep  pit  of  darkness, 

Doth  womanish  and  fearful  mankind  live!  . . 

In  all  our  quest  of  greatness, 

Like  wanton  boys,  whose  pastime  is  their  care, 

We  follow  after  bubbles  blown  in  the  air. 

Pleasure  of  life,  what  is’t?  only  the  good  hours 


POETRY  — INEQUALITIES  OF  THE  DRAMA 


425 


Of  an  ague;  merely  a preparative  to  rest, 

To  endure  vexation.  . . . 

Whether  we  fall  by  ambition,  blood,  or  lust, 

Like  diamonds,  we  are  cut  with  our  own  dust.’ 

To  little  of  the  dramatic  talent,  as  we  pass  on  to  its  lower 
grades,  are  we  able  to  accord  a distinct  notice.  The  writers  have 
merit,  might  have  left  a rich  legacy  to  all  generations,  but  wrote 
too  much,  which  is  perhaps  the  fault  of  all  ages  and  of  every 
author.  They  have  the  diversity  of  human  life,  but  no  central 
principle  of  order.  Their  scenes  are  more  effective  as  detached 
than  as  connected.  All  degrade  their  fine  metal  by  the  inter- 
mixture of  baser.  All  afford  veins  or  lumps  of  the  precious  ore 
in  the  duller  substance  of  their  work.  Here  are  specimens: 

‘ Man  is  a torch  borne  in  the  wind;  a dream 
But  of  a shadow .’ 1 

‘Now,  all  yc  peaceful  regents  of  the  night, 

Silently  gliding  exhalations, 

Languishing  winds , and  murmuring  falls  of  waters , 

Sadness  of  heart , and  ominous  secureness , 

Enchantments , dead  sleeps , all  the  friends  of  rest 
That  ever  wrought  upon  the  life  of  man, 

Extend  your  utmost  strengths;  and  this  charmed  hour 
Fix  like  the  centre.’2 

‘From  his  bright  helm  and  shield  did  burn  a most  unwearied  fire, 

Like  rich  Autumnus’  golden  lamp,  whose  brightness  men  admire, 

Past  all  the  other  host  of  stars,  when  with  his  cheerful  face, 

Fresh  washed  in  lofty  ocean  waves,  he  doth  the  sky  enchase.’3 

‘Patience,  my  lord!  why,  't  is  the  soul  of  peace; 

Of  all  the  virtues,  *t  is  nearest  kin  to  heaven; 

It  makes  men  look  like  gods.  The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  ivas  a sufferer , 

A soft , meek , patient , humble , tranquil  spirit  ; 

The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed' 4 

‘He  that  in  the  sun  is  neither  beam  nor  moat. 

He  that's  not  mad  after  a petticoat, 

He  for  whom  poor  men’s  curses  dig  no  grave. 

He  that  is  neither  lord’s  nor  lawyer’s  slave, 

He  that  makes  This  his  sea  and  That  his  shore, 

He  that  in’s  coffin  is  richer  than  before, 

He  that  counts  Youth  his  sword  and  Age  his  staff. 

He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph. 

He  that  upon  his  death-bed  is  a swan, 

And  dead  no  crow,— he  is  a Happy  Man.’5 

Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks, 

Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes, 

Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue, 

1 Chapman;  a wise,  manly,  but  irregular  genius,  greater  as  a translator  of  Homer 

than  as  a dramatist.  2 Ibid.  3 Ibid:  Homer. 

4 Decker;  a hopeful,  cheerful,  humane  spirit,  who  turned  vexations  and  miseries 

into  commodities.  5 Ibid. 


426 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Of  all  that  was  past  woman’s  excellence, 

In  her  white  bosom;  look,  a painted  boar 
Circumscribes  all ! ’ 1 

‘ Love ! hang  love ! 

It  is  the  abject  outcast  of  the  world. 

Hate  all  things;  hate  the  world,  thyself,  all  men; 
Hate  knowledge;  strive  not  to  be  overwise; 

It  drew  destruction  into  Paradise; 

Hate  honor,  virtue,  they  are  bates 
That  entice  men’s  hopes  to  sadder  fates.’2 

‘As  having  clasped  a rose 
Within  my  palm,  the  rose  being  ta’en  away. 

My  hand  retains  a little  breath  of  sweet, 

So  may  man’s  trunk,  his  spirit  slipp'd  away. 

Hold  still  a faint  perfume  of  his  sweet  guest.’3 

‘Black  spirits  and  white;  red  spirits  and  gray; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  yon  that  mingle  may. 
Titty,  Tiffin,  keep  it  stiff  in; 

Firedrake,  Puckey,  make  it  lucky;  ‘ 

Lizard,  Robin,  you  must  bob  in: 

Round,  around,  around,  about,  about; 

All  ill  come  running  in;  all  good  keep  out! 

1st  Witch.  Here's  the  blood  of  a bat. 

Hecate.  Put  in  that;  oh,  put  in  that. 

2d  Witch.  Here's  libbard's  bane. 

Hecate.  Put  it  in  again. 

1st  Witch.  The  juice  of  a toad,  the  oil  of  adder. 

2d  Witch.  Those  will  make  the  younker  madder. 

All.  Round,  around,  around,  about,  about; 

All  ill  come  running  in;  all  good  keep  out!’4 

‘Now  I go,  now  I fly 
Malkin,  my  sweet  spirit,  and  I. 

Oh,  what  dainty  pleasure  'tis 
To  ride  in  the  air. 

When  the  moon  shines  fair, 

And  sing  and  dance,  and  toy  and  kiss! 

Over  woods,  high  rocks,  and  mountains, 

Over  seas,  our  mistress’  fountains, 

Over  steep  towers  and  turrets, 

We  fly  by  night,  ’mongst  troops  of  spirits. 

No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounds; 

No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelp  of  hounds; 

No  not  the  noise  of  waters’  breach, 

Or  cannon’s  roar  our  height  can  reach.’ 5 

‘Simple  and  low  is  our  condition, 

For  here  with  ns  is  no  ambition: 

We  with  the  sun  our  flocks  unfold, 

Whose  rising  makes  their  fleeces  gold; 

Our  music  from  the  birds  we  borrow, 

They  bidding  us,  we  them,  good-morrow. 


1 Decker. 

2Marston;  properly  a satirist,  bitter,  misanthropic,  cankered.  sIbid. 

4 Middleton ; a sagacious  cynic,  best  known  by  his  play  of  The  Witch. 


* IbJfTf. 


PROSE  — CHAOS  AND  OVERFLOW. 


427 


Our  habits  are  but  coarse  and  plain, 

Yet  they  defend  from  wind  and  rain: 

As  warm  too,  in  an  equal  eye, 

As  those  bestained  in  scarlet  dye. 

The  shepherd,  with  his  homespun  lass, 

As  many  merry  hours  doth  pass, 

As  courtiers  with  their  costly  girls, 

Though  richly  dressed  in  gold  and  pearls.’ 1 

In  Shirley,  last  of  the  great  race,  the  fire  and  passion  of  the 
grand  old  era  passes  away.  Imagination  is  driven  from  its  last 
asylum.  The  sword  is  drawn,  and  the  theatres  are  closed.  Dram- 
atists are  stigmatized,  actors  are  arrested;  and  when,  after  the 
lapse  of  a few  years,  they  return  to  their  old  haunts,  it  is  as 
roisterers  under  a foreign  yoke. 

Prose. — The  drooping  flower  of  poesy  was  succeeded  by  a 
blossom  of  prose,  produced  by  the  same  inner  growth,  and,  at  its 
highest  point,  tinged  with  the  like  ideal  colors.  A half  dozen 
writers  will  exhibit  the  expansion.  We  omit,  at  present,  those 
who  offer  only  the  material  of  knowledge,  the  substance  of 
wisdom  merely,  — annalists,  antiquaries,  scientists,  pamphleteers, 
whether  poets,  dramatists,  divines,  or  politicians;  and  pass  to 
those  who  bring  us  merit  of  execution,  as  well  as  the  residuary 
element  of  thought-value.  Of  Bacon  we  shall  elsewhere  treat. 
Fulness  of  thought  and  splendor  of  workmanship  raise  him  into 
the  realm  of  pure  literature.  Less  originative  and  luminous, 
though  of  the  same  band  of  scholars  and  dreamers,  is  Robert 
Burton,  an  ecclesiastic,  a recluse,  an  eccentric,  spasmodically 
gay,  as  a rule  sad.  To  amuse  and  relieve  himself,  after  thirty 
years’  reading,  he  wrote  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy , an  enor- 
mous medley  of  ideas,  musical,  medical,  poetical,  mathematical, 
philosophical;  every  page  garnished  with  Latin,  Greek,  or  French, 
from  rare  and  unknown  authors.  It  is  the  only  book  that  ever 
took  Dr.  Johnson  out  of  bed  two  hours  sooner  than  he  wished  to 
rise.  Here  is  a faint  suggestion  of  his  style  — a glimpse  into 
its  jumble  of  observation,  erudition,  anecdote,  instruction,  and 
amusement: 

‘Boccace  hath  a pleasant  tale  to  this  purpose,  which  he  borrowed  from  the  Greeks, 
and  which  Beroaldus  hath  turned  into  Latin,  Bebelius  into  verse,  of  Cymon  and  Iphige- 
nia.  This  Cymon  was  a fool,  a proper  man  of  person,  and  the  governor  of  Cyprus’  son, 
out  a very  ass;  insomuch  that  his  father  being  ashamed  of  him,  sent  him  to  a farm- 

1 Thomas  Heywood;  graceful  and  gentle,  one  of  the  most  prolific  writers  the  world 
has  ever  seen. 


428 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


house  he  had  in  the  country,  to  be  brought  up;  where  by  chance,  as  his  manner  was, 
walking  alone,  he  espied  a gallant  young  gentlewoman  named  Iphigenia,  a burgomas- 
ter's daughter  of  Cyprus,  with  her  maid,  by  a brook  side,  in  a little  thicket,  fast  asleep 
in  her  smock,  where  she  had  newly  bathed  herself.  When  Cymon  saw  her  he  stood  lean- 
ing on  his  staff,  gaping  on  her  immovable , and  in  a maze : at  last  he  fell  so  far  in  love 
with  the  glorious  object,  that  he  began  to  rouse  himself  up;  to  bethink  what  he  was; 
would  needs  follow  her  to  the  city,  and  for  her  sake  began  to  be  civil,  to  learn  to  sing 
and  dance,  to  play  on  instruments,  and  got  all  those  gentleman-like  qualities  and  com- 
pliments, in  a short  space,  which  his  friends  were  most  glad  of.  In  brief,  he  became 
from  an  idiot  and  a clown,  to  be  one  of  the  most  complete  gentlemen  in  Cyprus;  did 
many  valorous  exploits,  and  all  for  the  love  of  Mistress  Iphigenia.  In  a word,  I may  say 
thus  much  of  them  all,  let  them  be  never  so  clownish,  rude  and  horrid,  Grobians  and 
sluts,  if  once  they  be  in  love,  they  will  be  most  neat  and  spruce ; for,  Omnibus  rebus , et 
nitidis  nitoribus  antevenit  amor  ; they  will  follow  the  fashion,  begin  to  trick  up,  and  to 
have  a good  opinion  of  thexnselves;  venustatum  enim  mater  Venus ; a ship  is  not  so  long 
a-rigging,  as  a young  gentlewoman  a-trimming  up  herself  against  her  sweetheart  comes. 
A painter’s  shop,  a flowery  meadow,  is  not  so  gracious  an  aspect  in  Nature's  store-house  as 
a young  maid,  nubilis  paella , a Novitsa  or  Venetian  bride,  that  looks  for  an  husband ; or  a 
young  man  that  is  her  suitor;  composed  looks,  composed  gait,  clothes,  gestures,  actions, 
all  composed;  all  the  graces,  elegancies,  in  the  world,  are  in  her  face.  Their  best  robes, 
ribbons,  chains,  jewels,  lawns,  linens,  laces,  spangles,  must  come  on;  praeter  quam  res 
patitur  student  elegantiae , they  arc  beyond  all  measure  coy,  nice,  and  too  curious  on  a 
sudden.  ’Tis  all  their  study,  all  their  business,  how  to  wear  their  clothes  neat,  to  be 
polite  and  terse,  and  to  set  out  themselves.  No  sooner  doth  a young  man  see  his  sweet- 
heart coming,  but  he  smugs  up  himself,  pulls  up  his  cloak,  now  fallen  about  his  shoul- 
ders, ties  his  garters,  points,  sets  his  band,  cuffs,  slicks  his  hair,  twires  his  beard,  etc.’ 

The  Meditations  of  Bishop  Hall,  the  ‘English  Seneca,’  are 
alike  rich  in  imagery  and  sententious  in  expression.  Passages 
like  the  following  reveal  the  poetic  temperament: 

‘Here  is  a tree  overlaid  with  blossoms:  it  is  not  possible  that  all  these  should  pros- 
per ; one  of  them  must  needs  rob  the  other  of  moisture  and  growth.  I do  not  love  to  see 
an  infancy  over-hopeful;  in  these  pregnant  beginnings  one  faculty  starves  another,  and 
at  last  leaves  the  mind  sapless  and  barren ; as,  therefore,  we  are  wont  to  pull  off  some  of 
the  too  frequent  blossoms,  that  the  rest  may  thrive,  so  it  is  good  wisdom  to  moderate  the 
early  excess  of  the  parts,  or  progress  of  over-forward  childhood.  Neither  is  it  other- 
wise in  our  Christian  profession;  a sudden  and  lavish  ostentation  of  grace  may  fill  the 
eye  with  wonder,  and  the  mouth  with  talk,  but  will  not  at  the  last  fill  the  lap  with  fruit.’ 

Again : 

‘What  a strange  melancholic  life  doth  this  creature  lead;  to  hide  her  head  all  the 
day  long  in  an  ivy  bush,  and  at  night,  when  all  other  birds  are  at  rest,  to  fly  abroad,  and 
vent  her  harsh  notes.  I know  not  why  the  ancients  made  sacred  this  bird  to  wisdom, 
except  it  be  for  her  safe  closeness  and  singular  perspicuity;  that  when  other  domestical 
and  airy  creatures  are  blind,  she  only  hath  inward  light  to  discern  the  least  objects  for 
her  own  advantage.  Surely  thus  much  wit  they  have  taught  us  in  her:  that  he  is  the 
wisest  man  that  would  have  least  to  do  with  the  multitude;  that  no  life  is  so  safe  as  the 
obscure;  that  retiredness,  if  it  have  less  comfort,  yet  has  less  danger  and  vexation; 
lastly,  that  he  is  truly  wise  who  sees  by  a light  of  his  own,  when  the  rest  of  the  world 
sit  in  an  ignorant  and  confused  darkness,  unable  to  apprehend  any  truth  save  by  the 
helps  of  an  outward  illumination.’ 

A like  irradiating  power  of  fancy,  with  a less  sustained  dig- 
nity, may  be  seen  in  Dr.  Fuller,  facetious  without  irreverence, 
and  witty  without  bitterness.  A few  of  his  aphorisms  may 


PROSE  — THE  DREAMER  OF  NORWICH. 


429 


suggest  that  strong  and  weighty,  yet  gentle  and  beautiful  style 
which  was  his  habit: 

‘Learning  hath  gained  most  by  those  books  by  which  the  printers  have  lost.’ 

‘Moderation  is  the  silken  string  running  through  the  pearl-chain  of  all  virtues.’ 

‘Anger  is  one  of  the  sinews  of  the  soul:  he  that  wants  it  hath  a maimed  mind.’ 

‘Tombs  are  the  clothes  of  the  dead.  A grave  is  but  a plain  suit,  and  a rich  monu- 
ment is  one  embroidered.’ 

‘They  that  marry  ancient  people,  merely  in  expectation  to  bury  them,  hang  them- 
selves in  hope  that  one  will  come  and  cut  the  halter.’ 

‘Heat  gotten  by  degrees,  with  motion  and  exercise,  is  more  natural,  and  stays  longer 
by  one,  than  what  is  gotten  all  at  once  by  coming  to  the  fire.  Goods  acquired  by  industry 
prove  commonly  more  lasting  than  lands  by  descent.’ 

‘It  is  dangerous  to  gather  flowers  that  grow  on  the  banks  of  the  pit  of  hell,  for  fear 
of  falling  in;  yea,  they  which  play  with  the  devil’s  rattles  will  be  brought  by  degrees  to 
wield  his  sword;  and  from  making  of  sport,  they  come  to  doing  of  mischief.’ 

‘Generally,  nature  hangs  out  a sign  of  simplicity  in  the  face  of  a fool,  and  there  is 
enough  in  his  countenance  for  a hue  and  cry  to  take  him  on  suspicion;  or  else  it  is 
stamped  in  the  figure  of  his  body;  their  heads  sometimes  so  little,  that  there  is  no  room 
for  wit;  sometimes  so  long,  that  there  is  no  wit  for  so  much  room.’ 

While  the  clash  of  arms  is  drawing*  men  of  letters  from  contem- 
plation into  the  war  of  pens,  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  a physician 
and  an  idealist,  is  plunging  into  the  abysses  of  meditative  reverie. 
Unlike  most  of  his  profession,  his  delight  is  in  the  preternatural 
and  visionary;  he  penetrates  the  internal  structure  of  things,  sees 
in  the  universe  more  than  a dry  catalogue,  divines  in  every  fact  a 
mysterious  soul,  looks  as  from  an  eminence  beyond  visible  phe- 
nomena, trembling  writh  a kind  of  veneration  before  the  dim 
vistas  of  the  unknown,  stirred  to  an  eloquent  sadness  by  the 
decay  of  nature  and  the  dust  of  forgotten  tombs,  moved  with  an 
eloquent  pity  for  the  plumed  and  disorderly  procession  swallowed 
up  in  the  fatal,  all-devouring  pit: 

‘Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close  all  bodies,  and  the  mortal  right-lined  circle 
must  conclude  and  shut  up  all.  There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium  of  time,  which 
temporally  considereth  all  things.  Our  fathers  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories, 
and  sadly  tell  us  now  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors.  Gravestones  tell  truth  scarce 
forty  years.  Generations  pass  while  some  trees  stand,  and  old  families  last  not  three 
oaks.  . . . Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  Pyramids?  Herostratus  lives  that  burnt 
the  temple  of  Diana;  he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it:  time  hath  spared  the  epitaph  of 
Adrian’s  horse;  confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the 
advantage  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have  equal  durations;  and  Thersites  is  like  to 
live  as  long  as  Agamemnon.  Who  knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be  known;  or 
whether  there  be  not  more  remarkable  persons  forgot  than  any  that  stand  remembered 
in  the  known  account  of  time.  Without  the  favour  of  the  everlasting  register,  the  first  ' 
man  had  been  as  unknown  as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had  been  his  only 
chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired:  the  greatest  part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they 


430 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


had  not  been;  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twenty- 
seven  names  make  up  the  first  story  before  the  Flood;  and  the  recorded  names  ever 
since  contain  not  one  living  century.  The  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth  all  that 
shall  live.  The  night  of  time  far  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows  when  was  the 
equinox?  . . . 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of  time,  and  oblivion  shares  with  memory  a 
great  part  even  of  our  living  beings;  we  slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and  the  smart- 
est strokes  of  affliction  leave  but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth  no  extremities, 
and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves.  To  weep  into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions 
induce  callosities;  miseries  are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon  us,  w'hich,  notwithstand- 
ing, is  no  unhappy  stupidity.  . . . The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time 
hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth.  Mummy  is  become  merchandise;  Mizraim  cures 
wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams.  . . . 

Man  is  a nob-le  animal,  splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  solemnising 
nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of  bravery  in  the  infancy 
of  his  nature.’ 1 

Those  whose  minds  are  intent,  constantly  or  mainly,  on  mere 
pleasure  and  gain,  on  the  petty  interests  of  appetite,  will  here 
find  little  to  their  satisfaction.  But  the  meditations  that  lead  us 
into  the  inner  chambers  of  life  and  death  are,  if  we  be  rightly 
attuned,  more  precious  than  the  positive  facts  that  put  money 
into  a man’s  pocket  or  actual  knowledge  into  his  head.  We  are 
more  than  sentiment  — we  are  rational,  we  are  ethical.  The  scale 
of  our  affinities  is  indicated  by  the  intellect  which  seeks  to  tran- 
scend the  finite  in  space  and  time  and  truth,  by  the  conscience 
which  owns  the  infinite  in  duty  and  stays  itself  on  the  infinite  in 
love.  A noble  melancholy  is  the  source  of  every  generous  pas- 
sion and  of  every  philosophical  discovery.2  Whatever  depth 
there  may  be  in  our  tenderness,  whatever  reverence  in  our  voice, 
flows  into  us  from  the  two  eternities. 

Another  who  rises  above  the  din  of  strife  into  the  region  of 
spiritualities,  is  Jeremy  Taylor,3  an  Anglican  and  a Royalist, 
upright,  zealous,  tolerant,  a sensitive  and  creative  genius,  less 
profound  than  Browne,  but  as  opulent  in  resources,  warmer, 
richer,  more  gorgeous  in  style.  His  soul  was  made  for  the  sub- 
lime, the  beautiful,  and  the  picturesque.  Never  was  such  wealth 
and  sweetness  of  imagery,  or  readier  perception  of  analogies  in 
things  familiar  and  fair.  He  sees  the  skylark  build  her  nest  on 


1 Hydriotaphia,  or  Urn  Buria' : ‘a  Discourse  on  the  Sepulchral  Urns  lately  found  in 
Norfolk.’ 

2 Melancholy  is  the  genuine  inspiration  of  true  genius:  whoever  is  not  conscious  of 
this  affection  of  the  mind  must  not  aspire  to  any  great  celebrity  as  an  author.  Madam 
de  Stael. 

Happy  is  the  country  where  the  authors  are  melancholy,  the  merchants  satisfied,  the 
rich  gloomy.  Ibid. 

3 Son  of  a poor  surgeon -barber,  entered  college  at  fourteen  as  a sizar,  won  his  way, 
married  a natural  daughter  of  Charles  I,  was  wrecked  in  the  storm  of  the  Civil  War, 
twice  imprisoned,  and  after  the  Restoration  loaded  with  honors. 


PROSE  — THE  SHAKESPEARE  OF  DIVINES. 


431 


the  ground,  sees  her  rise  amid  the  early  perfumes  of  the  fields, 
soaring  highest  of  all  the  feathered  tribe,  or  breasting  the  tem- 
pest in  her  upward  flight,  and  compelled  to  return  panting;  then 
he  thinks  of  the  good  man’s  spirit,  struggling  to  ascend  towards 
the  throne  of  mercy: 

‘For  so  I have  seen  a lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and  soaring  upwards,  singing 
as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven,  and  climb  above  the  clouds;  but  the  poor  bird 
was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregu- 
lar and  inconstant,  descending  more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest,  than  it  could  recover 
by  the  libration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his  wings;  till  the  little  creature  was  forced 
to  sit  down  and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was  over;  and  then  it  made  a prosperous 
flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing,  as  if  it  had  learned  music  and  motion  from  an  angel  as  he 
passed  sometimes  through  the  air,  about  his  ministries  here  below.  So  is  the  prayer  of 
a good  man.’ 

Or  his  full  imagination  traces  in  sensible  colors  the  progress  of 
sin: 

‘I  have  seen  the  little  purls  of  a stream  sweat  through  the  bottom  of  a bank,  and 
intenerate  the  stubborn  pavement,  till  it  hath  made  it  fit  for  the  impression  of  a child’s 
foot;  and  it  was  despised,  like  the  descending  pearls  of  a misty  morning,  till  it  had 
opened  its  way  and  made  a stream  large  enough  to  carry  away  the  ruins  of  the  under- 
mined strand,  and  to  invade  the  neighboring  gardens:  but  then  the  despised  drops  were 
grown  into  an  artificial  river,  and  an  intolerable  mischief.  So  are  the  first  entrances  of 
sin  stopped  with  the  antidotes  of  a hearty  prayer,  and  checked  into  sobriety  by  the  eye 
of  a reverend  man,  or  the  counsels  of  a single  sermon:  but  when  such  beginnings  are 
neglected,  and  our  religion  hath  not  in  it  so  much  philosophy  as  to  think  anything  evil 
as  long  as  we  can  endure  it,  they  grow  up  to  ulcers  and  pestilential  evils;  they  destroy 
the  soul  by  their  abode,  who  at  their  first  entry  might  have  been  killed  with  the  pressure 
of  a little  finger.’ 

With  like  fertility  and  continuity,  he  describes  the  growth  of 
reason : 

‘We  must  not  think  that  the  life  of  a man  begins  when  he  can  feed  himself  or  walk 
alone,  when  he  can  fight  or  beget  his  like,  for  so  he  is  contemporary  with  a camel  or  a 
cow;  but  he  is  first  a man  wThen  he  comes  to  a certain  steady  use  of  reason,  according  to 
his  proportion : and  when  that  is,  all  the  world  of  men  cannot  tell  precisely.  Some  are 
called  at  age  at  fourteen,  some  at  one  and  twenty,  some  never;  but  all  men  late  enough; 
for  the  life  of  a man  comes  upon  him  slowly  and  insensibly.  But,  as  when  the  sun 
approaches  towards  the  gates  of  the  morning,  he  first  opens  a little  eye  of  heaven,  and 
sends  away  the  spirits  of  darkness,  and  gives  light  to  a cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark  to 
matins,  and  by  and  by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a cloud,  and  peeps  over  the  eastern  hills, 
thrusting  out  his  golden  horns  like  those  which  decked  the  brow  of  Moses,  when  he  was 
forced  to  wear  a veil,  because  himself  had  seen  the  face  of  God;  and  still,  while  a man 
tells  the  story,  the  sun  gets  up  higher,  till  he  shews  a fair  face  and  full  light,  and  then  he 
shines  one  whole  day,  under  a cloud  often,  and  sometimes  weeping  great  and  little 
showers,  and  sets  quickly;  so  is  a man’s  reason  and  his  life.’ 

We  see  that  he  is  a philanthropist,  who  is  not  content  to  have 
religion  a ritual  or  a dream;  with  whom  the  business  of  life  is 
not  to  gather  gold  or  get  station,  but  to  be  a man  ; not  to  pass 
an  ephemeral  being  in  a whirl  of  fashion,  but  to  be  a woman; 
a godly  man,  who  does  not  spoil  the  poetic  depth  of  holiness  by 


432 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


reducing  its  speech  to  a technical  use;  a counsellor,  who  does  his 
work  only  with  thought  that  it  be  good,  whose  marriage  — let  us 
hope  — was  the  noble  poem,  the  interior  relation,  the  rudimentary 
heaven,  which  he  would  have  it  be: 

‘ They  that  enter  into  the  state  of  marriage  cast  a die  of  the  greatest  contingency,  and 
yet  of  the  greatest  interest  in  the  world,  next  to  the  last  throw  for  eternity.  Life  or 
death,  felicity  or  a lasting  sorrow,  are  in  the  power  of  marriage.  A woman,  indeed,  ven- 
tures most,  for  she  hath  no  sanctuary  to  retire  to  from  an  evil  husband;  she  must  dwell 
upon  her  sorrow,  and  hatch  the  eggs  which  her  own  folly  or  infelicity  hath  produced;  and 
she  is  more  under  it,  because  her  tormentor  hath  a warrant  of  prerogative,  and  the  woman 
may  complain  to  God,  as  subjects  do  of  tyrant  princes;  but  otherwise  she  hath  no  appeal 
in  the  causes  of  unkindness.  And  though  the  man  can  run  from  many  hours  of  his  sad- 
ness, yet  he  must  return  to  it  again;  and  when  he  sits  among  his  neighbors,  he  remem- 
bers the  objection  that  lies  in  his  bosom,  and  he  sighs  deeply.  The  boys  and  the  pedlers, 
and  the  fruiterers,  shall  tell  of  this  man  when  he  is  carried  to  his  grave,  that  he  lived 
and  died  a poor  wretched  person. 

The  stags  in  the  Greek  epigram,  whose  knees  were  clogged  with  frozen  snow  upon 
the  mountains,  came  down  to  the  brooks  of  the  valleys,  hoping  to  thaw  their  joints  with 
the  waters  of  the  stream;  but  there  the  frost  overtook  them,  and  bound  them  fast  in  ice, 
till  the  young  herdsmen  took  them  in  their  stronger  snare.  It  is  the  unhappy  chance 
of  many  men,  finding  many  inconveniences  upon  the  mountains  of  single  life,  they 
descend  into  the  valleys  of  marriage  to  refresh  their  troubles;  and  there  they  enter  into 
fetters,  and  are  bound  to  sorrow  by  the  chords  of  a man’s  or  woman’s  peevishness.  . . . 

Man  and  wife  are  equally  concerned  to  avoid  all  offences  of  each  other  in  the  begin- 
ning of  their  conversation ; every  Tittle  thing  can  blast  an  infant  blossom ; and  the  breath 
of  the  south  can  shake  the  little  rings  of  the  vine,  when  first  they  begin  to  curl  like  the 
the  locks  of  a new  weaned  boy:  but  when  by  age  and  consolidation  they  stiffen  into 
the  hardness  of  a stem,  and  have  by  the  warm  embraces  of  the  sun  and  the  kisses  of 
heaven,  brought  forth  their  clusters,  they  can  endure  the  storms  of  the  north,  and  the 
loud  noises  of  a tempest,  and  yet  never  be  broken:  so  are  the  early  unions  of  an  unfixed 
marriage.'1 

It  is  not  a cold  rigorist  who  speaks,  but  a saviour,  who  feels  the 
sore  travail  of  the  world,  and  esteems  nothing  greater  than  by 
word  or  deed  to  minister  comfort  to  a weary  or  troubled  soul: 

‘This  is  glory  to  thy  voice,  and  employment  fit  for  the  brightest  angel.  But  so  have 
I seen  the  sun  kiss  the  frozen  earth,  which  was  bound  up  with  the  images  of  death,  and 
the  colder  breath  of  the  north;  and  then  the  waters  break  from  their  inclosures,  and  melt 
with  joy,  and  run  in  useful  channels;  and  the  flies  do  rise  again  from  their  little  graves 
in  walls,  and  dance  awhile  in  the  air,  to  tell  that  there  is  joy  within,  and  that  the  great 
mother  of  creatures  will  open  the  stock  of  her  new  refreshment,  become  useful  to  man- 
kind, and  sing  praises  to  her  Redeemer.  So  is  the  heart  of  a sorrowful  man  under  the 
discourses  of  a wise  comforter.’ 

He  has,  like  Browne,  the  stamp  of  the  national  spirit,  the  North- 
ern gloom  which,  in  the  days  of  the  Edda , was  soothed  by  the 
roaring  of  the  sea  and  the  hollow  blast  of  the  barren  heath.  For 
what  is  the  end  and  sum  of  mortal  designs?  A dark  nifidit  and 
an  ill  guide,  ‘a  boisterous  sea  and  a broken  cable,’ — a rock  and  a 
wreck,  while  they  who  weep  loudest  have  yet  to  enter  into  the 
storm.  All,  fair  as  the  morning,  brave  as  the  noon,  are  the  Jieri- 


PROSE  — A NEW  CULTURE. 


433 


tage  of  worms.  Go  where  you  may,  you  tread  upon  the  bones  of 
a dead  man.  ‘ Where  is  the  dust  that  has  not  been  alive?” 

‘Nature  calls  us  to  meditate  of  death,  by  those  things  which  arc  the  instruments  of 
acting  it;  and  God  by  all  the  variety  of  His  providence,  makes  us  see  death  everywhere 
in  all  variety  of  circumstances,  and  dressed  up  for  all  the  fancies  and  the  expectation  of 
every  single  person.  Nature  has  given  us  one  harvest  every  year,  but  death  hath  two; 
and  the  spring  and  the  autumn  send  throngs  of  men  and  women  to  charnel-houses:  and 
all  the  summer  long,  men  are  recovering  from  their  evils  of  the  spring,  till  the  dog-days 
come,  and  then  the  Sirian  star  makes  the  summer  deadly;  and  the  fruits  of  the  autumn 
are  laid  up  for  all  the  year's  provision,  and  the  man  that  gathers  them  eats  and  surfeits, 
and  dies  and  needs  them  not,  and  himself  is  laid  up  for  eternity ; and  he  that  escapes 
till  winter,  only  stays  for  another  opportunity,  which  the  distempers  of  that  quarter 
minister  to  him  with  great  variety.  Thus  death  reigns  in  all  the  portions  of  our  time. 
The  autumn  with  its  fruits  provides  disorders  for  us,  and  the  winter’s  cold  turns  them 
into  sharp  diseases,  and  the  spring  brings  flowers  to  strew  our  hearse,  and  the  summer 
gives  green  turf  and  brambles  to  bind  upon  our  graves.’ 

The  style  of  all  these  writers,  by  its  copiousness  and  pomp,  by 
its  redundancies  and  irregularities,  links  them  to  the  age  of 
Elizabeth.  It  has  the  Elizabethan  ardor  and  the  Elizabethan 
faults.  If  now  we  turn  to  Cowley,  we  shall  see,  in  startling- 
contrast,  the  powerful  and  erratic  breeze  slacken  to  a smooth 
and  placid  equability: 

‘The  first  minister  of  state  has  not  so  much  business  in  public  as  a wise  man  has  in 
private:  if  the  one  have  little  leisure  to  be  alone,  the  other  has  less  leisure  to  be  in  com- 
pany: the  one  has  but  part  of  the  affairs  of  one  nation,  the  other  all  the  works  of  God  and 
Nature  under  his  consideration.  There  is  no  saying  shocks  me  so  much  as  that  which  I 
hear  very  often,  that  a man  does  not  know  how  to  pass  his  time.’ 

Of  Oliver  Cromwell: 

‘What  can  be  more  extraordinary  than  that  a person  of  mean  birth,  no  fortune,  no 
eminent  qualities  of  body,  which  have  sometimes,  or  of  mind,  which  have  often,  raised 
men  to  the  highest  dignities,  should  have  the  courage  to  attempt,  and  the  happiness  to 
succeed  in,  so  improbable  a design  as  the  destruction  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
most  solidly  founded  monarchies  upon  the  earth?  that  he  should  have  the  power  or  bold- 
ness to  put  his  prince  and  master  to  an  open  and  infamous  death;  to  banish  that  numer- 
ous and  strongly  allied  family:  to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and  wages  of  a parliament; 
to  trample  upon  them,  too,  as  he  pleased,  and  spurn  them  out  of  doors  when  he  grew 
weary  of  them;  to  raise  up  a new  and  unheard-of  monster  out  of  their  ashes;  to  stifle 
that  in  the  very  infancy,  and  set  up  himself  above  all  things  that  ever  were  called  sover- 
eign in  England;  to  oppress  all  his  enemies  by  arms,  and  all  his  friends  afterwards  by 
artifice;  to  serve  all  parties  patiently  for  a while,  and  to  command  them  victoriously  at 
last;  to  overrun  each  corner  of  the  three  nations,  and  overcome  with  equal  facility  both 
the  riches  of  the  south  and  the  poverty  of  the  north ; to  be  feared  and  courted  by  all  for- 
eign princes,  and  adopted  a brother  to  the  gods  of  the  earth ; to  call  together  parliaments 
with  a word  of  his  pen,  and  scatter  them  again  with  the  breath  of  his  mouth;  to  be  hum- 
bly and  daily  petitioned,  that  he  would  please  to  be  hired,  at  the  rate  of  two  millions  a 
year,  to  be  the  master  of  those  who  had  hired  him  before  to  be  their  servant;  to  have  the 
estates  and  lives  of  three  kingdoms  as  much  at  his  disposal  as  was  the  little  inheritance 
of  his  father,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  liberal  in  the  spending  of  them;  and  lastly  — for 
there  is  no  end  of  all  the  particulars  of  his  glory  — to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to 

1 Young’s  Night  Thoughts. 


28 


434 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — FEATURES. 


his  posterity;  to  die  with  peace  at  home,  and  triumph  abroad;  to  be  buried  among  kings, 
and  with  more  than  regal  solemnity;  and  to  leave  a name  behind  him  not  to  be  extin- 
guished but  with  the  whole  world;  which,  as  it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises,  so  might 
have  been,  too,  for  his  conquests,  if  the  short  line  of  his  human  life  could  have  been 
stretched  out  to  the  extent  of  his  immortal  designs.’ 

This  is  the  mark  of  a new  culture,  a new  society:  it  is  the  model 
which  Temple  and  Addison  will  adopt  and  improve. 

History. — The  contribution  to  this  department  in  the  first 
quarter  of  the  century,  most  valuable  as  authority  and  most  mas- 
terly in  execution,  is  Bacon’s  Reign  of  Henry  VII.  In  the 
collection  of  materials,  the  period  was  exceedingly  active.  Vol- 
umes of  Antiquities , Memoirs , Memorials , Travels , contempo- 
rary narratives  and  retrospective  treatises,  most  of  which  from 
the  literary  point  of  view  are  worthless,  attest  the  great  amount 
of  industry  subsidiary  to  true  history.  Always  liable  in  all  its 
forms  to  be  partisan,  the  historical  literature  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  as  a whole,  is  violently  so.  The  historian  speaks  less 
with  the  air  of  a judge  than  with  the  gesticulations  of  an  attor- 
ney. Indeed,  the  grave  and  judicial,  ancient  or  modern,  are  not 
altogether  unbiased  by  their  sympathies  and  antipathies.  They 
are  prone  — let  the  reader  or  student  remember  — to  write  in  the 
interest  of  some  political  party,  some  social  caste,  some  favorite 
hero,  some  Idol  of  the  Tribe , the  Den , the  Forum , or  the 
Theatre.  There  are,  also,  unmistakable  signs  that  historians 
were  shifting  their  ground.  Thus  Selden,  the  chief  of  scholars, 
offended  many  of  the  Royalists  by  his  History  of  Tithes , wherein 
he  denied  their  divine  right.  Baker  compiled  a Chronicle  ‘with 
such  care  and  diligence,’  he  assures  us,  ‘ that  if  all  other  chroni- 
cles were  lost,  this  only  would  be  sufficient  to  inform  posterity  of 
all  passages  worthy  to  be  known.’  Bacon  analyzes  motives, 
weighs  actions,  examines  and  describes  the  laws  and  events 
affecting  trade  and  agriculture,  with  an  evident  purpose  to  enable 
the  reader  to  glean  the  lessons  which  may  hereafter  be  turned  to 
useful  account.  We  observe  an  increasing  respect  for  the  human 
intellect,  an  indisposition  to  believe  in  things  strange,  merely  be- 
cause they  have  been  believed,  and  an  inclination  to  take  the 
side  of  the  people,  rather  than  that  of  the  rulers. 

Theology. — The  persecutions  of  Galileo,  and  his  recantation, 
suffice  to  show  that  Religion  was  still  considered  the  arbiter  of 
Science.  In  England,  though  creeds  did  not  at  once  come  into 


PROSE — THE  AGE  OF  CREEDS. 


435 


conflict  with  the  general  culture,  the  temper  of  the  nation  was 
intensely  theological.  ‘ There  is  a great  abundance  of  theologians 
in  England,’  says  a contemporary;  ‘all  point  their  studies  in  that 
direction.’  It  was  a period  of  distrust  and  dissension, — of  the 
strife  of  conservative  and  radical  reform.  As  the  struggle  pro- 
gressed, fanaticism  gained  ground,  faith  became  more  stubborn, 
divinity  more  sinister,  action  and  intelligence  more  restrictive. 
But  — Milton  aside  — the  Episcopalians  were  not  only  more  tal- 
ented and  scholarly  than  their  opponents,  but  also  more  liberal. 
If,  by  their  alliance  with  the  crown,  they  were  oppressive  in  poli- 
tics, they  were  tolerant  in  doctrine,  more  friendly,  perhaps,  to 
the  large  ideas  of  the  Renaissance. 

What  it  is  chiefly  important  to  observe,  is,  that  the  rage  of 
controversy  reacted  upon  the  spirit  of  insubordination  that  was 
abroad,  and  tended  to  the  rapid  increase  of  heresy.  In  1647, 
Boyle  writes  from  London: 

‘There  arc  few  days  pass  here  that  may  not  justly  be  accused  of  the  brewing  or 
broaching  of  some  new  opinion.  Nay,  some  are  so  studiously  changing  in  that  particu- 
lar, they  esteem  an  opinion  as  a diurnal,  after  a day  or  two  scarce  worth  the  keeping. 
If'any  man  have  lost  his  religion,  let  him  repair  to  London,  and  I’ll  warrant  him  he  shall 
find  it.  I had  almost  said  too,— if  any  man  has  a religion,  let  him  but  come  hither  now, 
and  he  shall  go  near  to  lose  it 1 

Each  sect  proclaimed  its  contempt  of  tradition  and  the  efficiency 
of  reason.  Hales,  the  ‘ ever-memorable,’  declared  that  he  would 
quit  the  Church  of  England  to-morrow  if  she  insisted  on  the 
damnation  of  dissenters.  He  advised  men  to  trust  to  themselves 
alone  in  religious  matters.  Of  the  authority  of  the  Fathers  and 
of  Councils,  he  said  briefly,  ‘It  is  none.’  Universality  is  no  con- 
clusive test.  It  ‘is  such  a proof  of  truth  as  truth  itself  is  ashamed 
of.  The  most  singular  and  strongest  part  of  human  authority  is 
properly  in  the  wisest  and  most  virtuous,  and  these,  I trow,  are 
not  the  most  universal.’  ChillingWOrth,  a militant  and  Royal- 
ist, of  strong  and  subtle  intellect,  asserted  the  insecurity  of  any 
basis  for  belief  but  that  of  private  judgment.  No  man  is  bound  to 
believe  the  points  at  issue  between  the  Catholics  and  Protestants 
if  he  finds  them  repugnant  to  reason.  ‘God  requires  only  that 
we  believe  the  conclusion  as  much  as  the  premises  deserve.’ 
Nothing  can  be  more  detrimental  to  religion  than  to  force  it. 
‘For  my  part,  I am  certain  that  God  hath  given  us  our  reason  to 
discern  between  truth  and  falsehood;  and  he  that  makes  not  this 
use  of  it,  but  believes  things  he  knows  not  why,  I say  it  is  by 


43G 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


chance  that  he  believes  the  truth,  and  not  by  choice;  and  I can 
not  but  fear  that  God  will  not  accept  of  this  sacrifice  of  fools.’ 
The  great  principle  of  religious  toleration  is  clearly  implied  in 
this,  if  it  is  not  clearly  expressed  in  what  follows: 

‘This  deifying  our  own  interpretations  and  tyrannous  enforcing  them  upon  others; 
this  restraining  of  the  word  of  God  from  that  latitude  and  generality,  and  the  understand- 
ings of  men  from  that  liberty  wherein  Christ  and  His  apostles  left  them,  is  and  hath  been 
the  only  foundation  of  all  the  schisms  of  the  Church  and  that  which  makes  them  im- 
mortal.’ 

But  the  first  famous  plea  for  tolerance,  on  a solid  and  compre- 
hensive basis,  was  Taylor’s  liberty  of  Prophesying . That  free- 
dom of  conscience  which  the  Puritan  founded  on  the  personal 
communion  of  each  soul  with  God,  is  here  founded  on  the  weak- 
ness of  authority  and  the  infirmity  of  reason.  The  Apostle’s 
Creed  comprises  all  that  can  be  absolutely  proven,  and  therefore 
all  that  is  fundamental.  All  errors  beyond  do  not  affect  salva- 
tion, and  hence  ought  not  to  be  punished.  The  magistrate,  how- 
ever, must  see  to  the  safety  of  the  commonwealth,  and  put  down, 
if  necessary,  those  religions  whose  principles  destroy  government, 
as  well  as  ‘those  religions  — if  there  be  any  such  — which  teach 
ill  life.’ 

Among  Puritans,  the  Independents  allowed  the  greater  lati- 
tude. Milton  deemed  persecution,  in  defense  of  truth,  inexcusa- 
ble: ‘For  truth  is  strong  next  to  the  Almighty.  She  needs  no 
policies  or  stratagems  or  licensings  to  make  her  victorious.  These 
are  the  shifts  and  the  defences  that  error  uses  against  her  power.’ 
The  Presbyterians  desired  to  tolerate  only  those  who  accepted 
the  ‘fundamentals’  of  Christianity,  and  drew  up  a list  which 
formed  as  elaborate  and  exclusive  a test  as  the  Anglican  articles 
which  they  rejected.  They  tried  in  1648  to  induce  Parliament  to 
enact  that  any  one  who  advocated  views  contrary  to  the  doctrines 
of  the  Trinity  and  the  Incarnation,  should  be  punished  with  death, 
and  all  who  taught  Popish,  Arminian,1  Baptist,  or  Quaker  doc- 
trines, should  be  imprisoned  for  life.  Catholicism,  indeed,  was 
by  all  sectaries  ruthlessly  proscribed;  but  the  nation,  it  is  evident, 
was  advancing  towards  religious  liberty.  It  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  this  great  process  — yet  far  from  being  completed  in  any 
country  — was  begun  by  the  union  of  the  spirit  of  Christianity 

1 A scheme  of  Arminius,  a Dutch  theologian,  who  died  in  1608.  It  arose  by  way  of 
reaction  against  the  predestinarianism  of  Calvin. 


PROSE  — SECULARIZATION  OF  MORALS. 


437 


with  the  spirit  of  scepticism.  He  who  has  learned  to  doubt  has 
learned  to  tolerate.  They  who  have  recognized  the  fallibility  of 
their  own  opinions,  cease  to  dream  that  guilt  can  be  associated 
with  an  honest  conclusion. 

Ethics. — When  dogmatism  declines,  we  may  be  sure  that 
men  are  interrogating  their  moral  sense  more  than  the  books  of 
theologians,  and  that  they  will  soon  proceed  to  make  that  sense 
a supreme  arbiter.  While  the  period  offers  nothing  that  can  be 
reckoned  a treatise,  much  less  a system,  of  moral  philosophy, 
indications  are  not  wanting  that  conditions  were  rapidly  maturing 
for  the  examination,  analysis,  and  classification  of  moral  feelings 
on  a rationalistic  basis.  Bacon,  without  attempting  a scheme, 
calls  attention  to  the  insufficient  treatment  of  Ethics,  and  sug- 
gests the  double  line  of  investigation  — theory  and  practice : 

‘The  main  and  primitive  division  of  moral  knowledge  seemeth  to  be  into  the  exem- 
plar or  platform  of  good,  and  the  regimen  or  culture  of  the  mind:  the  one  describing 
the  nature  of  good ; the  other  presenting  rules  how  to  subdue,  apply,  and  accommodate 
the  will  of  man  thereunto.’ 

The  ‘ platform  ’ seems  to  consist  in  seeking  the  good  of  the  whole 
— or  the  greatest  good  of  the  greatest  number.  He  contributes 
several  passages,  moreover,  to  the  rising  issues  touching  the 
rights  of  belligerents.  We  also  meet  with  allusions,  reflections, 
precepts,  counsels,  in  Feltham’s  Resolves , Berkin’s  Cases  of  Con- 
science, Selden’s  Table  Talk , and  Browne’s  Christian  Morals. 
The  aim  of  these  writers  is  not  to  inquire  into  the  principles  of 
action,  but  rather  to  enforce  the  duties  of  practical  religion.  We 
quote  briefly  from  the  last: 

1 Live  by  old  ethicks  and  the  classical  rules  of  honesty.  . . . Think  not  that  morality 
is  ambulatory;  . . . that  virtues,  which  are  under  the  everlasting  seal  of  right  reason, 
may  be  stamped  by  opinion.  And  therefore  though  vicious  times  invert  the  opinions  of 
things,  and  set  up  new  ethics  against  virtue,  yet  hold  thou  unto  old  morality;  and  rather 
than  follow  a multitude  to  do  evil,  stand  like  Pompey’s  pillar  conspicuous  by  thyself, 
and  single  in  integrity.  And  since  the  worst  of  times  afford  imitable  examples  of  virtue ; 
since  no  deluge  of  vice  is  like  to  be  so  general  but  more  than  eight  will  escape;  eye  well 
those  heroes  who  have  held  their  heads  above  water,  who  have  touched  pitch  and  not 
been  defiled,  and  in  the  common  contagion  have  remained  uncorrupted. ’ 

And: 

‘Live  happy  in  the  Elysium  of  a virtuously  composed  mind,  and  let  intellectual  con- 
tents exceed  the  delights  wherein  mere  pleasurists  place  their  paradise.  Bear  not  too 
slack  reins  upon  pleasure,  nor  let  complexion  or  contagion  betray  thee  unto  the  exor- 
bitancy of  delight.  Make  pleasure  thy  recreation  or  intermissive  relaxation,  not  thy 
Diana,  life  and  profession.  . . . Our  hard  entrance  into  the  world,  our  miserable  going 
out  of  it,  our  sicknesses,  disturbances,  and  sad  rencounters  in  it,  do  clamorously  tell  us 
we  come  not  into  the  world  to  run  a race  of  delight.’ 


438 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


Again : 

‘ Lastly,  if  length  of  days  be  thy  portion,  make  it  not  thy  expectation.  Reckon  not 
upon  long  life ; think  every  day  the  last,  and  live  always  beyond  thy  account.  He  that  so 
often  surviveth  his  expectation  lives  many  lives,  and  will  scarce  complain  of  the  short- 
ness of  his  days.  Time  past  is  gone  like  a shadow;  make  time  to  come  present.  Ap- 
proximate thy  latter  times  by  present  apprehensions  of  them;  be  like  a neighbour  unto 
the  grave,  and  think  there  is  but  little  to  come.  And  since  there  is  something  of  us  that 
will  still  live  on,  join  both  lives  together,  and  live  in  one  but  for  the  other.  He  who  thus 
ordereth  the  purposes  of  this  life  will  never  be  far  from  the  next.1 

That  moral  instruction  has  been  secularized,  constitutes  an  im- 
portant advance  towards  the  exploration  of  the  nature  and  foun- 
dation of  morals. 

Science. — As  poetry  languished,  science  rose,  a second  crea- 
tion which  continued  the  first.  What  one  had  represented,  the 
other  proceeded  to  observe,  to  analyze,  and  to  classify.  On  the 
Continent,  the  discoveries  of  Galileo  established  the  Copernican 
theory  of  the  universe.  Summoned  before  the  Inquisition,  he 
was  forced  to  kneel  in  the  sackcloth  of  a penitent,  and  swear 
with  his  hands  upon  the  gospels,  that  ‘ it  was  not  true  that  the 
earth  moved  round  the  sun,  and  that  he  would  never  again  in 
words  or  writing  spread  this  damnable  heresy.’  ‘And  yet,’  he 
immediately  whispered  to  a friend,  ‘it  does  move.’  In  1609,  he 
had  constructed  his  telescope,  and,  applying  it  to  the  heavens, 
had  excited  the  strongest  interest  by  revealing  the  inequalities  of 
the  moon’s  surface,  the  moon-like  phases  of  Venus,  the  satellites 
of  Jupiter,  and  the  ring  of  Saturn.  Space  was  thus  seen  to  be 
very  different  from  what  the  ancients  had  imagined.  Men  were 
led  to  suspect  that  it  contained  a mechanism  more  various  and 
more  vast  than  had  ever  been  conjectured.  Kepler  took  up  the 
notion  of  a physical  connection  among  celestial  bodies,  and 
arrived  at  three  laws  the  most  magnificent  which  the  whole  ex- 
panse of  human  knowledge  can  show:  that  the  planets  move 
round  the  sun  in  ellipses  • that  they  describe  equal  areas  about 
their  centres  in  equal  times / that  the  squares  of  their  periodic 
times  are  proportional  to  the  cubes  of  their  distances.  Why 
they  so  moved,  or  how  their  motions  were  maintained,  he  also 
endeavored  to  explain.  It  was  assumed  that  a current  of  fluid 
matter  circulated  round  the  sun,  and  carried  them  with  it,  like 
a boat  in  a stream,  or  straws  in  a whirlpool.  The  true  explana- 
tion was  to  be  the  glory  and  merit  of  Newton.  The  theory 
of  vortices, — put  forward  more  distinctly  and  elaborately  by 


PROSE  — THE  EXPANSION  OF  SCIENCE. 


439 


Descartes, — though  it  is  now  known  to  have  no  scientific  value, 
has  a mental  value  of  the  highest  order:  for  (1)  it  reminds  us 
again  that  the  complete  disclosure  of  a new  truth  by  the  principal 
discoverer  is  preceded  by  guesses,  trials,  and  glimpses;  and  (2) 
it  introduced  the  conception  of  natural  law  into  what  had  long 
been  the  special  realm  of  superstition. 

In  England,  the  intellectual  impulse  was  in  the  same  direction. 
Weeds  and  the  grain  often  thrive  and  flourish  together,  but  if 
Bacon  set  aside  with  scorn  the  astronomical  system  of  Coper- 
nicus, he  was  the  first  to  impress  upon  mankind  at  large,  the 
power  and  importance  of  physical  research.  ‘Through  all  those 
ages,’  he  says,  ‘wherein  men  of  genius  or  learning  principally  or 
even  moderately  flourished,  the  smallest  part  of  human  industry 
has  been  spent  on  natural  philosophy,  though  this  ought  to  be 
esteemed  as  the  great  mother  of  the  sciences;  for  all  the  rest,  if 
torn  from  the  root,  may  perhaps  be  polished  and  formed  for  use, 
but  can  receive  little  increase.’  Many  were  undecided,  Milton 
among  others: 

‘What  if  seventh  to  these 
The  planet  earth,  though  steadfast  she  seem, 

Insensibly  three  different  motions  move?’ 

And: 

‘What  if  the  sun 

Be  centre  to  the  world;  and  other  stars. 

By  his  attractive  virtue  and  their  own 
Incited,  dance  about  him  various  rounds?’ 

His  leaning,  however,  seems  to  have  been  for  the  new: 

‘Or  she  from  west  her  silent  course  advance 
With  inoffensive  pace,  that  spinning  sleeps 
On  her  soft  axle,  while  she  paces  even. 

And  bears  thee  soft  with  the  smooth  air  along?’ 

Many  were  knocking  at  the  door  which  another  and  a later  was 
to  force  open.  In  1638  a book  appeared  with  the  title,  The  Dis- 
covery of  a JVew  World ; two  years  afterward,  a Discourse 
concerning  a JVew  Planet.  The  art  of  numerical  calculation 
made  inestimable  progress  by  means  of  Napier’s  invention  of 
Logarithms,  without  which  the  sciences  in  which  the  most  splen- 
did triumphs  have  been  achieved,  could  never  have  been  carried 
to  the  height  they  have  reached.  The  circulation  of  the  blood 
had  been  partially  anticipated.  Harvey  completed  the  doctrine, 
demonstrated  and  announced  it.  It  encountered  as  much  popu- 
lar as  professional  odium;  but  like  the  heliocentric  doctrine, — 


440 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


‘Untamed  its  pride,  unchecked  its  course. 

From  foes  and  wounds  it  gathers  force.’ 

This  was  the  beginning;  of  a revolution  in  medicine.  In  the  fer- 
ment  of  the  Civil  War,  some  speculative  persons  formed  them- 
selves into  a club,  which  they  called  the  Invisible  College,  and 
met  once  a week,  sometimes  in  London,  sometimes  in  Oxford, 
according  to  the  changes  of  fortune  and  residence  of  members. 
‘ Our  business,’  says  one  of  them,  ‘ precluding  affairs  of  state  and 
questions  of  theology,  was  to  consider  philosophical  subjects,  and 
whatever  related  thereto, — physic,  anatomy,  geometry,  astron- 
omy, navigation,  statics,  magnetism,  chemistry,  mechanics,  and 
natural  experiments,  with  the  state  of  these  studies  as  then  culti- 
vated at  home  or  abroad.’ 

A witness  to  the  resistless  tendencies  of  the  age,  is  the  cele- 
brated work  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne — Inquiries  into  Vulgar 
and  Common  Errors.  His  enumeration  of  errors  to  be  dispelled 
exemplifies  the  notions  which  prevailed: 

‘That  crystal  is  nothing  else  but  ice  strongly  congealed;  that  a diamond  is  softened 
or  broken  by  the  blood  of  a goat;  that  a pot  full  of  ashes  will  contain  as  much  water  as 
it  would  without  them;  that  bays  preserve  from  the  mischief  of  lightning  and  thunder; 
that  an  elephant  hath  no  joints;  that  a wolf,  first  seeing  a man,  begets  a dumbness  in 
him;  that  moles  are  blind;  that  the  flesh  of  peacocks  corrupteth  not;  that  storks  will 
only  live  in  republics  and  free  states;  that  the  chicken  is  made  out  of  the  yolk  of  the  egg; 
that  men  weigh  heavier  dead  than  alive ; that  the  forbidden  fruit  was  an  apple ; that  there 
was  no  rainbow  before  the  Flood;  that  John  the  Evangelist  should  not  die.’ 

‘Many  others  there  are,’  he  adds,  ‘which  we  resign  unto  divinity, 
and  perhaps  deserve  not  controversy.’  We  are  here  informed 
that  one  main  cause  of  error  is  ‘adherence  unto  authority’;  that 
another  is  ‘ neglect  of  inquiry’;  that  a third  is  ‘credulity.’  All 
which  is  confirmatory  of  that  vast  social  and  intellectual  move- 
ment which  we  have  seen  sweep  away  the  institutions  that  vainly 
attempted  to  arrest  it,  and  which  was  steadily  introducing  a new 
series  of  conceptions  into  every  province  of  speculative  and  prac- 
tical life. 

Philosophy. — The  sterile  empire  of  scholasticism  was  at  an 
end.  The  sound  of  great  names  had  lost  its  omnipotent  charm. 
Speculators  felt  the  need  of  a law  and  a law-giver  to  methodize 
the  discordant  elements,  but  pursued  no  determinate  course, 
while  pretenders  struggled  for  the  vacant  throne.  At  this  junc- 
ture a leader  appeared  — Francis  Bacon,  who  set  aside  the 
traditions  of  the  past,  separated  philosophy  from  theology,  and  in 


PROSE  — RISE  OF  MODERN  PHILOSOPHY. 


441 


a large  and  noble  temper  called  the  attention  of  mankind  to  the 
power  and  importance  of  experimental  research.  While  his  own 
researches  lay  chiefly  in  the  domain  of  physical  science,  yet  the 
spirit  of  his  method  — slow  and  patient  investigation  — was  one 
which  applied  equally  to  the  whole  realm  of  knowledge.  More 
clearly  than  any  other,  he  saw  where  the  error  of  the  ancients 
lay, — in  making  the  largest  generalizations  first,  without  the  aid 
or  warrant  of  rigorous  inductive  methods,  and  applying  them 
deductively  without  verification.  But  the  revolt  from  this  waste 
of  intelligence,  as  well  as  his  ignorance  of  mathematical  knowl- 
edge, blinded  him  to  the  real  value  of  deduction  as  an  instrument 
of  discovery.1  His  influence,  however,  especially  on  the  develop- 
ment of  science,  was  decisive,  if  not  immediate.  His  fundamental 
maxim  — excellent  though  not  without  its  dangers  — suited  the 
English  positive,  practical  genius, — that  philosophy  should  begin 
in  observation  and  end  in  art: 

‘ In  the  same  manner  as  we  are  cautioned  by  religion  to  show  our  faith  by  our  works, 
we  may  freely  apply  the  principle  to  philosophy,  and  judge  of  it  by  its  works,  account- 
ing that  to  be  futile  which  is  unproductive,  and  still  more,  if  instead  of  grapes  and  olives 
it  yield  but  the  thistles  and  thorns  of  dispute  and  contention?’ 

What  is  that  world?  What  is  man?  What  is  the  origin  of 
knowledge?  What  are  its  limits?  How  can  it  be  increased? 
From  what  principles  must  we  start?  What  methods  are  we  to 
employ?  What  rule  shall  we  deduce  for  the  conduct  of  life?  To 
answer  these  questions  is  the  dark  problem  of  metaphysics,  to 
which  Bacon,  from  the  bent  of  his  genius,  was  no  way  addicted. 
On  the  continent  a Frenchman,  Descartes,  gave  an  answer  which, 
while  it  has  ceased  to  be  satisfactory,  formed  the  starting-point 
of  much  English  speculation,  though  he  himself  made  no  distin- 
guished disciples  among  English  thinkers.  Turning  the  mental 
vision  inward,  as  Bacon  turned  it  outward,  he  watched  the  opera- 
tions of  the  soul,  as  an  object  in  a microscope.  Resolved  to 
believe  nothing  but  upon  evidence  so  convincing  that  he  could 
not  by  any  effort  refuse  his  assent,  he  found,  as  he  inspected  his 
beliefs,  that  he  could  plausibly  enough  doubt  everything  but 
his  own  existence.  Here  at  last  was  the  everlasting  rock,  and 

1 Mechanics,  astronomy,  optics,  acoustics,  involve  a deductive  element.  Each  sup- 
poses the  law  to  be  so  and  so,  that  is,  devises  an  hypothesis,  and  inquires  what  conse- 
quences will  follow,  always  with  the  design  of  trying  such  results  by  facts,  and  adopting 
the  hypothesis  only  when  it  can  stand  the  test.  From  a principle  thus  established  a 
multitude  of  truths  are  deduced  by  the  mere  application  of  geometry  and  algebra. 


442 


PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — FEATURES. 


this  was  revealed  in  his  own  Consciousness.  Hence  his  famous 
Cogito,  ergo  sum , — I think , therefore  I am.  Consciousness,  said 
he>  is  the  basis  of  certitude.  Interrogate  it,  and  its  clear  replies 
will  be  science;  for  all  clear  ideas  are  true.  Down  in  the  depths 
of  self,  he  tells  you,  is  the  distinct  immutable  idea  of  the  Infinite 
Perfection  — the  mark  of  the  workman  impressed  upon  his 
work;  therefore,  God  exists.  This  fact  established,  the  veracity 
of  our  faculties  is  guaranteed;  for  an  Infinite  and  Perfect  Being 
would  not  so  constitute  His  creatures  that  they  should  be  always 
and  essentially  deceived.  His  method  of  ascent  to  the  basis  of 
truth  was  inductive ; thenceforth,  from  that  irreversible  Cer- 
tainty, it  was  deductive.  He  was  greatest  in  that  in  which  Bacon 
was  least, — mathematics.  The  latter  argued  from  effects  to 
causes;  the  former  deduced  effects  from  causes  — explaining  the 
phenomena  of  sense  by  those  of  intuition.  The  one  used  ex- 
periment to  verify  an  a priori  conception;  the  other,  to  form 
conceptions. 

Against  the  prosaic,  earthy  temper  of  the  next  period,  when 
Philosophy  shall  turn  her  face  earthward,  the  mind  be  plotted 
out  into  real  estate,  and  grandeur  become  a thing  unknown, 
let  us  hold  in  remembrance  the  sublime  words  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  on  the  true  dignity  and  destiny  of  man  as  the  highest 
sublunary  object  of  our  theoretical  and  moral  interest.  This 
poet-philosopher  shall  give  us  the  last  accents  of  the  great 
Elizabethan  age: 

‘ For  the  world,  I count  it  not  an  inn  but  an  hospital,  and  a place,  not  to  live  but  to 
die  in.  The  world  that  I regard  is  myself;  it  is  the  microcosm  of  my  own  frame  that  I 
oast  mine  eye  on ; for  the  other,  I use  it  but  like  my  globe,  and  turn  it  round  sometimes  for 
my  recreation.  . . . The  earth  is  a point  not  only  in  respect  of  the  heavens  above  us,  but 
of  that  heavenly  and  celestial  part  within  us;  that  mass  of  flesh  that  circumscribes 
me  limits  not  my  mind ; that  surface  that  tells  the  heavens  it  hath  an  end  cannot  per- 
suade me  I have  any:  . . . whilst  I study  to  find  how  I am  a microcosm  or  little  world,  I 
find  myself  something  more  than  the  great.  There  is  surely  a piece  of  divinity  in  us, 
something  that  was  before  the  elements  and  owes  no  homage  unto  the  sun.  Nature  tells 
me  I am  the  image  of  God,  as  well  as  Scripture ; he  that  understands  not  thus  much, 
hath  not  his  introduction  or  first  lesson,  and  is  yet  to  begin  the  alphabet  of  man.’ 

Resume. — The  opinions  and  feelings  that  had  been  growing 
up  in  the  bosom  of  private  families  now  manifested  themselves 
in  Parliamentary  debates,  then  overturned  the  throne,  and  insti- 
tuted the  Commonwealth.  Against  the  loyal  enthusiasm  of  Eng- 
lish gentry,  and  the  fierce  licentiousness  of  Royalist  reprobates, 
w7ere  arrayed  the  valor,  the  policy,  and  the  public  spirit  of  the 


RESUME. 


443 


Puritans,  with  their  severe  countenance,  precise  garb,  petty  scru- 
ples, and  affected  accent.  Out  of  the  struggle  sprang  into 
organized  existence  two  great  parties, — standing  the  one  for 
political  tradition,  the  other  for  political  progress;  the  one  for 
religious  conformity,  the  other  for  religious  liberty. 

In  the  drama,  the  noonday  of  Shakespeare  was  followed  by 
the  afternoon  flush  of  Jonson,  the  delineator  of  humors , and  a 
semi-classic  in  taste;  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  luxuriating  in 
irregularity  of  form,  and  heralding  the  sensual  excess  that  ended 
in  the  violent  extinction  of  the  art;  of  Massinger,  Ford,  and  the 
rest  of  that  bright  throng,  whose  final  and  almost  solitary  succes- 
sor was  Shirley. 

Having  reached  the  limit  of  its  expansion,  the  poetic  bloom 
withered.  The  serious  temper,  the  blast  of  strife,  the  ascetic 
gloom,  accelerated  the  decay  which  natural  causes  began.  The 
agreeable  replaced  the  forceful;  and  the  pretty,  the  beautiful. 
Donne  founded  the  fantastic  or  metaphysical  school,  marked  by 
the  love  of  quaint  phrases,  strange  analogies,  and  ambitious 
efforts  at  antithesis.  Poets  lost  the  romantic  fervor  without 
gaining  the  classic  grace.  Yet  in  this  exhausted  soil,  the  old 
sap,  lost  to  the  eye,  sent  up  one  more  of  its  most  vigorous  prod- 
ucts. Prose  was  unexampled  in  vigor  and  amount;  most  of  it  — 
in  particular  during  the  Civil  War — political  and  theological, 
inspired  by  the  rage  of  sects  and  factions,  meant  for  the  ravenous 
appetites  of  the  moment,  and  therefore  ephemeral.  A few  nota- 
ble books  — like  the  Areopagitica  of  Milton,  those  of  Taylor,  the 
Spenser  of  theology,  of  Bacon,  the  diviner  in  science,  and  of 
Browne,  the  dreamer  of  Norwich  — glow  with  the  colored  lights 
and  the  heart  of  fire  which  give  to  the  productions  of  genius 
enduring  life.  Style  was  copious,  even  to  redundancy;  ornate, 
even  to  intemperance;  not  seldom  pedantic,  with  blemishes  of 
vulgarity  and  tediously  prolonged  periods.  We  do  not  look  for 
grace  in  Leviathans,  nor  for  urbanity  in  mastodons. 

The  scholastic  dynasty,  which  had  survived  revolutions,  em- 
pires, religions,  and  languages,  was  fallen.  Into  the  ensuing 
anarchy  Bacon  introduced  the  principle  of  order,  and  furnished 
to  liberated  thought  a chart  and  compass.  His  preeminent  ser- 
vice was  his  classification  of  the  Idola , and  his  constant  injunction 
to  correct  theory  by  confronting  it  with  facts.  In  him,  and  in 


444  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 

Descartes  of  France,  modern  philosophy  may  be  said  to  originate, 
inasmuch  as  they  were  the  first  to  make  the  doctrine  of  method  a 
principal  object  of  consideration. 

Literary  eras  have  no  arbitrary  or  precise  bounds.  They  are 
discriminated  by  centres  and  directions,  by  a certain  set  of  influ- 
ences affecting-  the  public  mind  and  character  during  a more  or 
less  definite  time,  to  be  succeeded  by  a new  set  producing  a new 
phase  of  the  nation’s  literature.  The  characteristic  tendencies 
which  stretch  across  them  are  denoted  by  persons  scattered 
through  them,  as  the  mountain  trend  is  determined  by  its  isolated 
peaks.  The  poetic  conception  of  the  world,  as  distinguished  from 
the  mechanical,  may  be  taken  as  the  dominant  mark  of  the  so- 
called  Elizabethan  Age,  first  clearly  defined  in  Spenser,  rising  to 
its  zenith  in  Shakespeare,  and  passing  away  in  Milton — last  of 
the  famed  race  who  slaked  the  thirst  of  their  souls  at  the  springs 
of  imagination  and  faith. 


JONSON. 


Then  Jonson  came,  instructed  from  the  school, 

To  please  in  method,  and  invent  by  rule; 

His  studious  patience  and  laborious  art 

By  regular  approach  essay'd  the  heart. — Samuel  Johnson. 

Many  were  the  wit-combats  betwixt  Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jonson,  which  two  I be- 
held like  a Spanish  great  galleon  and  an  English  man-of-war.  Master  Jonson,  like  the 
former,  was  built  far  higher  in  learning;  solid  but  slow  in  his  performances.  Shak- 
speare, with  the  English  man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn 
with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit 
and  invention.—  Fuller. 

Biography. — Born  in  Westminster,  in  1574,  a few  days  after 
the  death  of  his  father,  who  was  a clergyman  ; attracted  the 
attention  of  Camden,  who  sent  him  to  school,  where  he  made 
extraordinary  progress;  entered  Cambridge  at  sixteen,  but  was 
shortly  recalled  by  his  step-father,  a bricklayer,  who  set  him  to 
the  trowel;  ran  away,  enlisted,  fought  in  the  Netherlands,  killed 
a man  in  single  combat  in  the  view  of  both  armies;  returned  to 
England  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  with  a roistering  reputation  and 
an  empty  purse;  turned  to  the  stage  for  a livelihood,  and  failed; 
quarrelled  with  a fellow-performer,  and  slew  him  in  a duel,  was 


JONSON. 


445 


arrested  for  murder,  imprisoned,  almost  brought  to  the  gallows  ; 
was  released,  and  immediately  married  a woman  as  poor  as  himself 
— a wife  whom  he  afterwards  described  as  ‘a  shrew  yet  honest’; 
was  forced  again  to  the  stage  both  as  an  actor  and  a writer,  be- 
ginning his  dramatic  career  by  doing  job-work  for  the  managers; 
sprang  into  fame  in  his  twenty-second  year,  proclaimed  himself  a 
reformer  of  the  drama,  assumed  an  imperious  attitude,  railed  at 
his  rivals,  and  made  bitter  enemies,  against  whom  he  struggled 
without  intermission  to  the  end;  excited  the  king’s  anger  by  an 
irreverent  allusion  to  the  Scotch,  was  in  danger  of  mutilation,  but 
was  set  at  liberty  without  a trial;  amid  feasting  and  rejoicing, 
his  mother  showed  him  a poison  which  she  had  intended  to  put 
into  his  drink,  to  save  him  from  the  disgraceful  punishment,  and 
‘to  show  that  she  was  not  a coward,’  says  Jonson,  ‘she  had  re- 
solved to  drink  first  ’;  received  the  appointment  of  Poet  Laureate, 
with  a pension  of  a hundred  marks,  which  was  subsequently  ad- 
vanced to  a hundred  pounds  by  Charles  I.  His  latter  days  were 
dark  and  painful.  For  twelve  years  he  battled  with  want  and 
disease.  His  pockets  had  holes,  and  his  money  failed.  Still 
obliged  to  write  in  order  to  live,  he  wrote  when  his  pen  had  lost 
its  vigor  and  lacked  the  charm  of  novelty.  Scurvy  increased, 
paralysis  came,  and  dropsy.  In  the  epilogue  to  the  New  Inn 
(1630),  he  appeals  to  the  audience: 

‘If  you  expect  more  than  you  had  to-night, 

The  maker  is  sick  and  sad.  . . . 

All  that  his  faint  and  falt’ring  tongue  doth  crave, 

Is,  that  you  not  impute  it  to  his  brain, 

That’s  yet  unhurt,  altho’  set  round  with  pain 
It  cannot  long  hold  out.’ 

Deprived  of  Court  patronage,  he  was  forced  to  beg,  first  from 
the  Lord  Treasurer,  then  from  the  Earl  of  Newcastle.  Shattered, 
drivelling,  and  suffering,  he  died  in  August,  1637, — alone,  served 
by  an  old  woman;  and  was  buried,  in  an  upright  posture,  in  the 
Poet’s  Corner  of  the  Abbey.  A workman,  hired  for  eighteen 
pence  by  the  charity  of  a passer-by,  carved  into  the  simple  stone 
over  his  grave  the  laconic  inscription: 

‘O  Bare  Ben  Jonson!’ 

Appearance. — Big  and  coarsely  framed,  of  wide  and  long* 
face,  early  marred  by  scurvy,  square  jaw,  enormous  cheeks,  thick 
lips,  with  a ‘mountain  belly’  and  an  ‘ungracious  gate’;  a pon- 


446  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


derous  athlete,  of  free  and  boisterous  habits,  built  up  out  of  beef 
and  Canary  wine,  for  action  and  for  endurance.  His  life  and 
manners  were  in  harmony  with  his  person. 

"Writings. — We  perceive  at  once  the  introduction  of  a new 
model, — art  subjected  strictly  to  the  laws  of  classical  compo- 
sition. The  understanding  of  the  artist  is  solid,  strong,  pene- 
trating, assertive;  his  mind,  extensively  furnished  from  expe- 
rience and  from  books;  his  memory,  retentive  and  exact,  crowded 
with  technical  details  and  learned  reminiscences.  It  is  not  for 
him  to  imitate,  but  to  be  imitated.  He  has  a doctrine,  which  he 
expounds  with  Latin  regularity.  He  will  be  loyal  to  culture,  and 
therefore  observes  the  unities.  His  plot  shall  be  a diagram,  the 
incidents  rapid  and  natural;  and  you  may  see  the  dramatic  effect, 
perceptible  to  every  reader,  rise  to  a climax  by  a continuous  and 
uniform  ascent.  You  have  seen  greater  spontaneity,  finer  sym- 
pathy, finer  fancy,  a more  genial  spirit  of  enjoyment,  but  never 
such  preoccupation  of  rule  and  method;  above  all,  such  power  of 
working  out  an  idea  to  a painful  and  oppressive  issue,  such  per- 
sistency of  thirst  to  unmask  folly  and  punish  vice.  A character, 
with  him,  is  but  an  incorporated  idea, — a leading  feature,  conceit, 
or  passion,  produced  on  the  stage  in  a man’s  dress, — which  masters 
the  wThole  nature,  and  which  the  personages  combine  to  illustrate. 
At  twenty-two,  having  exulted  in  his  own  exploits  on  the  field, 
he  writes  Every  Man  in  his  Humour , to  clothe  in  flesh  and  blood 
a colossal  coward  and  braggart, — Bobadil,  who  swears  ‘by  the 
body  of  Caesar,’  or  ‘by  the  foot  of  Pharaoh,’  or,  more  terrifically 
still,  ‘ by  my  valor  ! ’ His  proposal  for  the  pacification  of  Europe 
is  famous: 

‘I  will  tell  you,  sir,  by  the  way  of  private,  and  under  seal,  I am  a gentleman,  and 
live  here  obscure,  and  to  myself;  but  were  I known  to  her  majesty  and  the  lords  (ob- 
serve me),  I would  undertake,  upon  this  poor  head  and  life,  for  the  public  benefit  of  the 
state,  not  only  to  spare  the  entire  lives  of  her  subjects  in  general,  but  to  save  the  one- 
half,  nay,  three-parts,  of  her  yearly  charge  in  holding  war,  and  against  what  enemy 
soever.  And  how  would  I do  it,  think  you!  . . . Why,  thus,  sir.  I would  select  nineteen 
more,  to  myself,  throughout  the  land;  gentlemen  they  should  be  of  good  spirit,  strong 
and  able  constitution ; I would  choose  them  by  an  instinct,  a character  that  I have : and 
I wTould  teach  these  nineteen  the  special  rules,— as  your  punto,  your  reverso,  your  stoc- 
cata,  your  imbroccato,  your  passado,  your  montanto, — till  they  could  all  play  very  near, 
or  altogether,  as  well  as  myself.  This  done,  say  the  enemy  were  forty  thousand  strong, 
we  twenty  would  come  into  the  field  the  tenth  of  March,  or  thereabouts;  and  we  would 
challenge  twenty  of  the  enemy;  they  could  not  in  their  honour  refuse  us;  well,  we  would 
kill  them;  challenge  twenty  more,  kill  them;  twenty  more,  kill  them;  twenty  more,  kill 
them  too;  and  thus  would  we  kill  every  man  his  twenty  a day,  that’s  twenty  score; 


JONSON. 


447 


twenty  score,  that's  two  hundred;  two  hundred  a day,  five  days  a thousand;  forty  thou- 
sand; forty  times  five,  five  times  forty,  two  hundred  days  kills  them  all  up  by  computa- 
tion. And  this  will  I venture  my  poor  gentleman-like  carcass  to  perform,  provided  there 
be  no  treason  practiced  upon  us,  by  fair  and  discreet  manhood;  that  is,  civilly  by  the 
sword.’ 

It  is  affectation  and  bluster  grown  to  egregious  excess.  So  in 
the  Alchemist , Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  in  public  and  alone,  expa- 
tiates continually  in  gigantic  fancies  of  luxury  and  sensuality. 
Hear  him  unfold  the  vision  of  splendors  and  debauchery  into 
which  he  will  plunge  when,  by  the  possession  of  the  philosopher’s 
stone,  he  has  learned  to  make  gold: 

‘I  assure  you 

He  that  has  once  the  flower  of  the  Sun, 

The  perfect  ruby,  which  we  call  elixir,  . . . 

Can  confer  honour,  love,  respect,  long  life; 

Give  safety,  valour,  yea,  and  victory. 

To  whom  he  will.  In  eight  and  twenty  days 
I’ll  make  an  old  man  of  fourscore  a child.  . . . 

I will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up,  not  stuff’d: 

Down  is  too  hard.  My  mists 

I’ll  have  of  perfume,  vapored  ’bout  the  room 

To  lose  ourselves  in;  and  my  baths,  like  pits. 

To  fall  into:  from  whence  we  will  come  forth, 

And  roll  as  dry  in  gossamer  and  roses.— 

Is  it  arriv’d  at  ruby?— And  my  flatterers 
Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines. 

And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  ostrich  tails 
Apiece,  made  in  a plume  to  gather  wind. 

We  will  be  brave,  Puffe,  now  we  have  the  med'eine 
My  meat  shall  all  come  in , in  Indian  shells , 

Dishes  of  agate,  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies, 

The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camel’s  heels, 

Boil’d  in  the  spirit  of  sol,  and  dissolv'd  pearl , 

Apicius’  diet  ’gainst  the  epilepsy: 

And  I will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber, 

Headed  with  diamond  and  carbuncle. 

My  foot-hoy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver’d  salmons, 

Knots,  godwits,  lampreys:  I myself  will  have 
The  beards  of  barbels  serv’d,  instead  of  salads; 

Oil’d  mushrooms;  and  the  swelling,  unctuous  paps 
Of  a fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 

Drest.  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce, 

For  which  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  “ There's  gold  ; 

Go  forth,  and  be  a knight."  . . . 

My  shirts 

I’ll  have  of  taffeta-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 
As  cobwebs;  and  for  all  my  other  raiment, 

It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 

Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 

My  gloves  of  fishes’  and  birds’  skins,  perfum’d 
With  gums  of  Paradise  and  eastern  air: 


448  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Or  the  dominant  trait  assumes  the  form  of  a mental  eccentricity, 
bordering  on  madness,  as  in  The  Silent  Woman.  Morose  is  an 
old  citizen  who  has  a horror  of  noise,  but  loves  to  talk.  He  dis- 
charges his  servant  whose  shoes  creaked.  The  new  one  wears 
slippers  soled  with  wool,  and  speaks  only  in  a whisper  through  a 
tube;  but  even  the  whisper  is  finally  forbidden,  and  he  is  made  to 
reply  by  signs.  Further,  Morose  is  rich;  and  has  a nephew, 
witty  but  penniless,  who,  in  revenge  for  all  his  treatment,  finds 
him  a supposed  silent  woman,  the  beautiful  Epicene.  Morose, 
enchanted  by  her  brief  replies  and  nearly  inaudible  voice,  marries 
her,  with  a view  to  disinherit  his  nephew  who  has  laughed  at  his 
infirmity.  The  ceremony  is  no  sooner  over  than  she  turns  out  a 
very  shrew: 

‘Why,  did  you  think  you  had  married  a statue?  or  a motion  only?  one  of  the  French 
puppets,  with  the  eyes  turn’d  with  a wire?  or  some  innocent  out  of  the  hospital,  that 
would  stand  with  her  hands  thus,  and  a playse  mouth,  and  look  upon  you?1 

She  directs  the  valets  to  speak  louder;  opens  wide  the  doors  to 
her  friends,  who  arrive  in  troops  and  overwhelm  him  all  at  once 
with  congratulations,  Cjuestions,  and  counsels.  Here  comes  one^ 
with  a band  of  music,  who  play  suddenly,  to  their  utmost  volume. 
Now  a procession  of  menials,  with  clattering  dishes,  a whole  tav- 
ern. Amid  the  shouts  of  revelry,  the  din  of  trumpet  and  drum, 
Morose  flees  to  the  top  of  the  house,  puts  ‘ a whole  nest  of  night- 
caps ’ on  his  head  and  stuffs  his  ears.  In  vain.  The  racket 
increases.  The  house  is  turned  into  a thunder  factory.  ‘ Rogues, 
hell-hounds,  Stentors  ! . . . They  have  rent  my  roof,  walls,  and 
all  my  windows  asunder  with  their  brazen  throats  ! ’ Goaded  to 
desperation,  he  casts  himself  on  the  guests  with  his  long  sword, 
looking  like  a maniac;  chases  the  musicians,  breaks  their  instru- 
ments, and  disperses  the  gathering  amid  indescribable  uproar. 
Afterwards,  he  is  pronounced  mad,  and  they  discuss  his  alleged 
insanity  before  him.  They  jingle  in  his  ear  most  barbarous 
words,  consider  the  books  which  he  must  read  aloud  for  his  cure, 
assure  him  that  his  wife  talks  in  her  sleep,  and  snores  dreadfully. 
‘O,  redeem  me,  fate;  redeem  me,  fate,’  he  cries  in  his  extremity. 
‘For  how  many  causes  may  a man  be  divorced?’  he  asks  of  his 
nephew,  who  replies,  like  a clever  rascal,  ‘Allow  me  but  five 
hundred  during  life,  uncle,  and  you  are  free.’  Morose  accepts  the 
proposition  eagerly,  joyfully;  and  his  nephew  then  shows  him 
that  Epicene  is  no  woman  — only  a boy  in  disguise. 


JONSOtf. 


449 


In  sensual  Venice,  queen  city  of  vices  and  of  arts,  he  finds  a 
magnificent  cheat,  and  hounds  him  to  a merited  retribution  in 
Volpone.  Never  was  such  ignoble  lust  of  gold,  such  shameless 
artistry  in  guile,  such  debasement  to  evil  and  the  visibly  vile. 
The  fearful  picture  is  flashed  upon  us  at  the  outset,  when  Vol- 


pone  says: 


Then: 


‘ Good  morning  to  the  day,  and  next,  my  gold: 
Open  the  shrine,  that  I may  see  my  saint!  ’ 

‘Hail  the  world's  soul,  and  mine!  . . . 

O thou  son  of  God, 

But  brighter  than  thy  father,  let  me  kiss, 
With  adoration,  thee,  and  every  relic 
Of  sacred  treasure  in  this  blessed  room ! ’ 


Childless  and  without  relations,  he  has  many  flatterers  who  hope 
to  be  his  heir;  and  he  plays  the  invalid  to  encourage  their  gifts. 
First  Voltore  arrives,  bearing  a huge  piece  of  precious  plate. 
Volpone  has  cast  himself  on  the  bed  and  buried  himself  in  wraps, 
coughing  as  if  at  the  point  of  death: 

‘I  thank  you,  signior  Voltore, 

Where  is  the  plate?  mine  eyes  arc  bad.  . . . Your  love 
Hath  taste  in  this,  and  shall  not  be  unanswered.  . . . 

I cannot  now  last  long.  ...  I feel  me  going,— 

Uh,  uh,  uh,  uh ! ’ 


He  is  exhausted,  his  eyes  close;  and  Voltore  inquires  of  his  para- 
site, Mosca:  ‘Am  I inscribed  his  heir  for  certain?’ — 

‘Are  you? 

I do  beseech  you,  sir,  you  will  vouchsafe 
To  write  me  i’  your  family.  All  my  hopes 
Depend  upon  your  worship.  I am  lost 
Except  the  rising  sun  do  shine  on  me. 

Vol.  It  shall  both  shine  and  warm  yon,  Mosca. 

M.  Sir, 

I am  a man,  that  hath  not  done  yonr  love 
All  the  worst  offices:  here  I wear  your  keys, 

See  all  your  coffers  and  yonr  caskets  loekt. 

Keep  the  poor  inventory  of  your  jewels. 

Your  plate  and  moneys;  am  your  steward,  sir. 

Husband  your  goods  here. 

Vol.  But  am  I sole  heir? 

M.  Without  a partner,  sir,  confirm’d  this  morning: 

The  wax  is  warm  yet,  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 
Upon  the  parchment. 

Vol.  Happy,  happy  me! 

By  what  good  chance,  sweet  Mosca? 

Al.  Your  desert,  sir; 

I know  no  second  cause.’ 


29 


450  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


The  second  is  a deaf  old  miser,  Corbaccio,  hobbling  on  the  verge 
of  the  grave,  yet  trusting  to  survive  Volpone,  whom  he  is  joyed 
to  find  more  ill  than  himself: 

‘C.  How  does  your  patron?  ...  * 

M.  His  mouth 

Is  ever  gaping,  and  his  eyelids  hang. 

C.  Good. 

M.  A freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  his  joints. 

And  makes  the  color  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 

C.  ’Tis  good. 

M.  His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull. 

C.  Good  symptoms  still. 

M.  And  from  his  brain- 
ed I conceive  you,  good. 

M.  Flows  a cold  sweat,  with  a continual  rheum. 

Forth  the  resolved  corners  of  his  eyes. 

C.  1s  t possible?  Yet  I am  better,  ha! 

How  docs  he  with  the  swimming  of  his  head 

M.  O,  sir,  ’tis  past  the  scotomy,  he  now 

Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  left  to  snort:  *- 

You  hardly  can  perceive  him,  that  he  breathes. 

C.  Excellent,  excellent,  sure  I shall  outlast  him: 

This  makes  me  young  again,  a score  of  years.1 

He  is  reminded  that  Voltore  has  been  here,  to  forestall  him, 
leaving  a splendid  token  of  regard;  but: 

‘See,  Mosca,  look, 

Here,  I have  brought  a bag  of  bright  cecchines, 

Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate.  . . . 

M.  Now,  would  I counsel  you,  make  home  with  speed, 

There,  frame  a will;  whereto  you  shall  inscribe 
My  master  your  sole  heir.  . . . 

C.  This  plot 

Did  I think  on  before.  . . . 

M.  And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him. 

C.  I. 

M.  Being  so  lusty  a man. 

C.  Tis  true.1 

When  he  is  gone,  Corvino,  a merchant,  appears,  with  an  orient 
pearl  and  a superb  diamond.  ‘Am  I his  heir?’ — 

‘Sir,  I am  sworn,  I may  not  shew  the  will 
Till  he  be  dead : but  here  has  been  Corbaccio, 

Here  has  been  Voltore,  here  were  others  too, 

I cannot  number  ’em,  they  were  so  many. 

All  gaping  here  for  legacies;  but  I, 

Taking  the  vantage  of  his  naming  you, 

Signior  Corvino,  Signior  Corvino,  took 
Paper,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  there  I ask'd  him. 

Whom  he  would  have  his  heir?  Corvino.  Who 
Should  be  executor?  Corvino.  And, 

To  any  question  he  was  silent  to, 

I still  interpreted  the  nods  he  made 


JONSON. 


451 


(Through  weakness)  for  consent:  and  sent  home  th’  others, 
Nothing  bequeath’d  them,  but  to  cry  and  curse. 

Cor.  O my  dear  Mosca ! ’ 

Presently  he  departs;  and  Volpone,  springing  up,  cries  in  rap- 
tures: 

‘My  divine  Mosca! 

Thou  hast  to-day  outgone  thyself.  . . . Prepare 
Me  music,  dances,  banquets,  all  delights; 

The  Turk  is  not  more  sensual  in  his  pleasures, 

Than  will  Volpone.’ 

He  is  accused,  before  the  tribunal,  of  imposture  and  rape;  and 
the  would-be  heirs  defend  him  with  an  incredible  energy  of  lying 
and  open  villainy.  Then  he  writes  a will  in  Mosca’s  favor,  has 
his  death  reported,  conceals  himself,  and  enjoys  the  looks  of 
those  who  have  just  saved  him,  now  stupefied  with  disappoint- 
ment. Now  is  Mosca’s  moment.  He  has  the  will,  and  demands 
of  Volpone  half  his  fortune.  Their  dispute  exposes  the  common 
rascality.  The  arch  villain  has  outwitted  himself,  and  all  are 
sent  to  the  pillory. 

The  best  testimony  to  his  imagination  is  The  Sad  Shepherd , 
an  unfinished  pastoral  drama,  more  poetical  than  dramatic,  with 
nothing  low  in  the  comic  and  nothing  inflated  in  the  serious.  It 
were  not  easy  to  surpass  the  charm  of  the  opening  lines: 

‘Here  she  was  wont  to  go!  and  here!  and  here! 

Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks  and  violets  grow:  • 

The  world  may  find  the  Spring  by  following  her; 

For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne’er  left: 

Her  treading  would  not  bend  a blade  of  grass, 

Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk! 

But  like  the  soft  west-wind  she  shot  along, 

And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 

As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot ! ’ 

And  where  should  we  look  for  a more  masterly  delineation  of 
that  sorceress  of  evil,  the  witch  ? — 

‘Within  a gloomy  dimble  she  doth  dwell, 

Down  in  a pit,  o’ergrown  with  brakes  and  briars 
Close  by  the  ruins  of  a shaken  abbey , 

Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unto  the  ground , 

’Mongst  graves  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel-house,  . . . 

Where  the  sad  mandrake  grows. 

Whose  groans  are  dreadful:  and  dead-numbing  night-shade. 

The  stupefying  hemlock,  adder’s  tongue, 

And  martagan;  the  shrieks  of  luckless  owls 
We  hear,  and  croaking  niglit-crows  in  the  air! 

Green-bellied  snakes , blue  fire-drakes  in  the  sky, 

And  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings! 

The  scaly  beetles,  with  their  habergeons, 


452  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


That  make  a humming  murmur  as  they  fly! 

There  in  the  stocks  of  trees,  white  fairies  do  dwell. 

And  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  a pool , 

With  each  a little  changeling  in  their  arms! 

The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars, 

And  mount  the  spheres  of  fire  to  kiss  the  moonl 
While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glow-worm’s  light, 

Or  rotten  wood  o'er  which  the  worm  hath  crept, 

The  baneful  schedule  of  her  nocent  charms.’ 

Jonson’s  fame  rests  chiefly  on  his  comedies,  which  constitute 
by  far  the  largest  part  of  his  work.  His  tragedies  are  men-of- 
war,  stately  and  heavy.  JSejanus  is  distinguished  by  sustained 
depth  of  knowledge  and  gravity  of  expression.  But  more  than 
once,  in  this  and  in  Cataline , nature  forces  its  way  through 
pedantry  and  erudition.  Cataline’s  imprecation  is  fine: 

‘It  is  decreed!  Nor  shall  thy  fate,  O Rome! 

Resist  my  vow.  Though  hills  were  set  on  hills. 

And  seas  met  seas,  to  guard  thee,  I would  through: 

I’d  plough  up  rocks,  steep  as  the  Alps,  in  dust, 

And  lave  the  Tyrrhene  waters  into  clouds. 

But  I would  reach  thy  head,  thy  head,  proud  city!’ 

The  description  of  the  morning  on  which  the  conspirators  meet, 
is  powerful  and  dramatic: 

‘It  is,  methinks,  a morning  full  of  fate!  • 

She  riseth  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 

Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it. 

She  is  not  rosy-fingered,  but  swoll’n  black! 

Her  face  is  like  a water  turned  to  blood, 

And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds 
As  if  she  threatened  night  ere  noon  of  day!’ 

The  following  is  vivid  and  impressive: 

‘The  rugged  Charon  fainted, 

And  asked  a navy  rather  than  a boat, 

To  ferry  over  the  sad  world  that  came. 

The  maws  and  dens  of  beasts  could  not  receive 
The  bodies  that  those  souls  were  frighted  from; 

And  e’en  the  graves  were  fill’d  with  men  yet  living, 

Whose  flight  and  fear  had  mix’d  them  with  the  dead.’ 

Jonson  should  have  written  an  epic. 

Style.  — Massive,  erudite,  concise,  compact,  equipoised,  rotund; 
in  a word,  classic.  As  literal  as  Shakespeare’s  is  figurative;  as 
studied  as  Shakespeare’s  is  intuitive  and  unrestrained.  His  adver- 
saries asserted  that  every  line  cost  him  a cup  of  sack.  In  prose, 
terse,  sharp,  swift,  biting.  In  versification,  peculiarly  smooth  and 
flowing;  for  this  literary  leviathan,  it  strangely  appears,  has  emi- 
nently the  merits  of  elegance  and  grace.  What,  for  example, 


JONSON. 


453 


could  be  more  lightsome  and  airy,  more  artistic,  than  the  procla- 
mation of  the  Graces,  when  Venus  has  lost  her  son  Cupid?  — 


‘Beauties,  have  you  seen  this  toy, 
Called  Love,  a little  boy, 

Almost  naked,  wanton,  blind, 

Cruel  now,  and  then  as  kind? 

If  he  be  amongst  ye,  say; 

He  is  Venus'  runaway. 

She  that  will  but  now  discover 
Where  the  winged  wag  doth  hover, 
Shall  to-night  receive  a kiss. 

How  or  where  herself  would  wish; 
But  who  brings  him  to  his  mother 
Shall  have  that  kiss,  and  another. 

He  hath  marks  about  him  plenty; 
You  shall  know  him  among  twenty. 
All  his  body  is  a fire, 


And  his  breath  a flame  entire, 

That,  being  shot  like  lightning  in, 
Wounds  the  heart,  but  not  the  skin. 

At  his  sight  the  sun  hath  turned; 
Neptune  in  the  waters  burned; 

Hell  hath  felt  a greater  heat; 

Jove  himself  forsook  his  seat; 

From  the  centre  to  the  sky 
Are  his  trophies  reared  high. 

Wings  he  hath,  which  though  yc  clip, 
He  will  leap  from  lip  to  lip, 

Over  liver,  lights,  and  heart. 

But  not  stay  in  any  part; 

And  if  chance  his  arrow  misses. 

He  will  shoot  himself  in  kisses.’ 


Rank.  — In  the  cluster  of  poets  who  sing  the  meditative, 
aspiring,  and  romantic  life  of  the  period,  Jonson  is  a soloist;  next 
to  Shakespeare,  a leader, — a leader  by  profundity  of  knowledge 
and  vigor  of  conception,  by  the  dash  of  the  torrent  and  the  force 
of  the  flood.  Above  all,  has  he  the  art  of  development,  the  habit 
of  Latin  regularity.  For  the  first  time,  a plot  is  a symmetrical 
whole,  advancing  by  consecutive  deductions;  having  a beginning, 
middle,  and  end,  its  subordinate  actions  well  ordered,  and  its 
leading  truth  which  they  combine  to  elucidate  and  establish.  He 
is  persuaded  that  he  ought  to  observe  the  severity  and  accuracy 
of  the  ancients;  not,  in  the  same  play, — 

‘Make  a child  new-swaddled,  to  proceed 
Man,  and  then  shoot  up,  in  one  beard  and  weed, 

Past  threescore  years;  or  with  three  rusty  swords, 

And  help  of  some  few  foot  and  half-foot  words, 

Fight  over  York  and  Lancaster’s  long  jars.’ 

But  in  this  full  attainment  of  form,  he  fails  in  completeness  of 
life.  He  is  too  much  of  a theorist,  too  little  of  a seer.  Given  a 
peculiarity,  he  can  work  it  out  with  logical  exactness  and  real- 
istic intensity.  That  is,  he  delineates  absorbing  singularities 
rather  than  persons.  He  thus  inverts  the  true  process  of  char- 
acterization, which  conceives  the  ‘humour’  as  an  offshoot  of  the 
individual.  He  is  English  merely,  where  Shakespeare  is  cosmo- 
politan. He  is  too  ponderous  and  argumentative.  His  plots, 
admirable  of  their  kind,  are  external  contrivances  of  the  under- 
standing rather  than  interior  organisms  of  the  imaginative 


454  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


insight.  Depth  of  passion  and  winning  tenderness  are  wanting. 
The  energy  which  should  be  vital  too  often  becomes  mechanical. 
His  point  of  view  is  usually  or  always  that  of  the  satirist: 

‘My  strict  hand 

Was  made  to  seize  on  vice,  and  with  a gripe 
Squeeze  out  the  humour  of  such  spongy  natures, 

As  lick  up  every  idle  vanity.1 

And  thus,  even  in  the  lower  levels  of  comedy,  where  he  is  most 
at  home,  the  critic  frequently,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  mars 
the  artist.  Neither  he  nor  the  reader  forgets  himself.  The  pro- 
cess is  seen,  the  intention  is  felt.  Calculation  strips  him  of  that 
delicate  and  easy-flowing  imitation  which  begets  hallucination. 

Still,  if  unable  to  construct  characters,  variety  of  learning, 
clearness  of  mind,  and  energy  of  soul,  suffice  to  depict  English 
manners  and  to  render  vice  visible  and  odious.  But  he  is  loftier 
from  another  side.  We  have  seen  how  charming,  how  elegant 
and  refined,  this  same  war-elephant  may  be  when  he  enters  the 
domain  of  pure  poetry;  as  in  the  polished  songs  and  other  lyrical 
pieces  sprinkled  over  his  dramas,  in  the  beautiful  dream  of  the 
Shepherd,  or  the  courtly  Masques , which  display  the  whole  mag- 
nificence of  the  English  Renaissance.  His  inequality — great 
excellences  offset  by  great  defects  — is  in  strong  contrast  with 
the  unebbing  fulness  and  amplitude  of  the  creative  Shake- 
speare. Nevertheless,  in  his  field,  in  his  genus  of  the  drama,  he 
stands  on  the  summit  of  his  hill. 

Character. — The  most  obvious  qualities  of  his  intellectual 
nature  are  weight  and  force;  of  his  spiritual  nature,  earnestness 
and  courage.  In  the  classics,  accurate  and  thorough;  and  on 
every  subject,  athirst.  He  is  said  to  have  carried  books  in  his 
pocket  while  working  at  his  trade,  in  order,  during  leisure  mo- 
ments, to  refresh  his  memory  upon  favorite  passages  in  the  Latin 
and  Greek  poets.  In  method,  he  was  careful  and  precise: 

‘For  a man  to  write  well,  there  are  required  three  necessaries: — to  read  the  best 
authors;  observe  the  best  speakers;  and  much  exercise  of  his  own  style.  In  style,  to 
consider  what  ought  to  be  written,  and  after  what  manner;  he  must  first  think,  and 
excogitate  his  matter;  then  choose  his  words,  and  examine  the  weight  of  either.  Then 
take  care  in  placing  and  ranking  both  matter  and  words,  that  the  composition  be  comely ; 
and  to  do  this  with  diligence  and  often.  No  matter  how  slow  the  style  be  at  first,  so  it 
be  labored  and  accurate;  seek  the  best,  and  be  not  glad  of  the  forward  conceits,  or  first 
words  that  offer  themselves  to  us,  but  judge  of  what  we  invent,  and  order  what  we 
approve.1 


JONSON. 


455 


He  had  moral  loftiness.  ‘Of  all  styles,’  he  said,  ‘he  most  loved 
to  be  named  Honest.’  To  this  add  resolute  self-assertion.  The 
stage  was  to  be  improved  and  exalted.  He  would  guide,  not 
follow,  the  popular  taste.  Judge  of  his  energy  and  purpose: 

‘With  an  armed  and  resolved  hand, 

I’ll  atrip  the  ragged  follies  of  the  time 
Naked  as  at  their  birth,  . . . 

And  with  a whip  of  steel, 

Print  wounding  lashes  in  their  iron  ribs. 

I fear  no  mood  stampt  in  a private  brow, 

When  I am  pleas’d  t’  unmask  a public  vice. 

I fear  no  strumpet’s  drugs,  nor  ruffian’s  stab. 

Should  I detect  their  hateful  luxuries.’ 

He  writes  correspondently, — as  if  with  his  fist.  Conscience  and 
vigor,  aided  by  an  intrepid  self-confidence,  commanded  esteem, 
even  veneration;  his  hard- won  position  strengthened  his  natural 
pride;  and  consciousness  of  power,  with  a severe  sense  of  duty, 
rendered  him  censorious,  magisterial.  He  thought  Donne,  ‘ for 
not  keeping  of  accent,  deserved  hanging’;  and  Decker  was  a 
rogue.  He  could  instruct  even  Shakespeare.  At  the  Mermaid, 
he  was  self-constituted  autocrat.  His  hearers  were  schoolboys. 
While  other  dramatists  said  to  the  audience,  ‘ Please  to  applaud 
this,’  Ben  said,  ‘Now  you  fools,  we  shall  see  if  you  have  sense 
enough  to  applaud  this ! u Egotistical,  overbearing,  of  sour 
aspect,  he  was  frank,  social,  generous,  even  prodigal.  To  the  last 
, he  retained  the  riotous,  defiant  color  of  the  brilliant  dramatic 
world  through  which  he  fought  his  way.  Like  the  rest,  he  lived 
freely,  liberally,  and  saw  the  ins  and  the  outs  of  lust.  Drink, 
always  a luxury,  became  his  necessity.  He  was  a frequent  visitor 
of  the  Apollo,  a club  in  the  Old  Devil  Tavern;  wrote  rules  for 
it, — Leges  Conviviales ; and  penned  a welcome  over  the  door  to 
all  who  approved  the  ‘true  Phabian  liquor.’ 

In  a general  view,  he  presents  a singular  antithesis, — a rugged, 
gross,  and  combative  aspect,  which  is  the  ordinary  one,  and  a 
fanciful,  serene  aspect,  which  is  exceptional  and  separate,  occu- 
pying, so  to  speak,  a secluded  corner  in  the  general  largeness. 
It  might  seem  surprising  that  the  burly  giant  could  become  so 
gracefully  petit  as  he  appears  in  previous  quotations,  and,  pre- 
eminently in  the  following  lightly  tripping  strophe: 

‘Have  you  seen  but  a bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 


Whipple. 


456  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o’  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver? 

Or  swan's  down  ever? 

Or  have  smelt  o’  the  bud  o’  the  briar? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 

O so  white, — O so  soft,— O so  sweet  is  she!’ 

Influence. — It  is  believed  that  his  social  position  was  supe- 
rior to  Shakespeare’s.  With  royalty  he  was  familiar.  Elizabeth 
and  James  admired  and  employed  him.  His  society  was  courted 
by  the  time-worn  and  the  youthful;  and  by  an  inner  circle  of 
devotees  he  was  venerated.  In  his  declining  days,  he  was  the 
acknowledged  chief  of  his  art,  and  during  the  Restoration  his 
reputation  as  a critic  was  still  second  to  none.  In  his  own  age, 
his  power  was  similar  to  that  of  his  massive  namesake,  Samuel 
Johnson,  in  the  succeeding  century.  Swift  was  to  find  sugges- 
tions in  his  Tale  of  the  Tub.  Milton  was  to  go  to  his  masques 
and  odes  for  some  of  the  elegancies  of  his  own  dignified  muse. 
Dryden  was  to  think,  erroneously,  ‘He  did  a little  too  much 
Romanize  our  tongue.’  For  reasons  given,  his  readers  are  now, 
unhappily  and  unworthily,  relatively  few;  but,  as  his  good  parts 
are  enduring  and  imperishable,  no  fame  is  more  secure. 

To  every  soul  that  is  taxed,  to  every  youth  that  resolves  to 
be  eminent,  he  brings  the  assurance  that  manly  resistance  sub- 
dues the  opposition  of  the  world;  the  resolution  to  surmount  an 
obstacle  reduces  it  one  half;  before  a fearless  step,  foes  will  slink 
away;  around  perseverance  the  Graces  collect,  and  at  its  bidding 
the  laurel  comes. 


LORD  BACON. 


Who  is  there  that  upon  hearing  the  name  of  Lord  Bacon  does  not  instantly  recognize 
everything  of  genius  the  most  profound,  everything  of  literature  the  most  extensive, 
everything  of  discovery  the  most  penetrating,  everything  of  observation  of  human  life 
the  most  distinguishing  and  refined? — Burke. 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1561 ; his  father,  Sir  Nich- 
olas, one  of  Elizabeth’s  most  sagacious  statesmen;  his  mother, 
the  learned  daughter  of  Sir  Anthony  Cooke;  received  his  early 
education  under  his  mother’s  eye,  mixed  freely  with  the  wise 


LORD  BACON. 


457 


and  sreat  who  were  visitors  at  his  home;  at  thirteen,  entered 
Cambridge  University,  where  his  deepest  impressions  became  an 
inveterate  scorn  for  Aristotle  and  his  followers;  left  before  he 
was  sixteen,  without  taking  a degree,  and  was  sent  to  France  as 
an  attache  of  the  English  ambassador,  to  learn  the  arts  of  state- 
craft; designed  to  stay  some  years  abroad,  and  was  studying 
assiduously  when  his  father’s  sudden  death  recalled  him,  making 
it  incumbent  ‘to  think  how  to  live,  instead  of  living  only  to 
think’;  applied  for  office,  but  his  abilities  were  too  splendid,  and 
a jealous  uncle  ‘suppressed’  him;  took  to  law,  and  soon  rose  to 
eminence;  at  twenty-four,  obtained  a seat  in  the  Commons;  w'as 
appointed  by  the  queen  her  counsel  extraordinary,  but,  owing  to 
the  secret  opposition  of  his  kinsman,  was  not  immediately  raised 
to  any  office  of  emolument;  loved  but  lost  a rich  young  widow, 
and  at  forty-five  married  a fair  young  bride;  steadily  advanced 
in  fortune  after  the  accession  of  James,  till  he  reached  the  post 
to  which  he  had  long  aspired  — Lord  High  Chancellor;  was 
accused  of  accepting  bribes  in  his  official  capacity,  was  rudely 
stripped  of  all  his  dignities,  sentenced  to  the  Tower  during  the 
king’s  pleasure,  and  heavily  fined;  was  restored  to  liberty  within 
forty-eight  hours,  with  a remission  of  his  fine,  but  permitted  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  penury,  obscurity,  and  disgrace, 
hunted  by  creditors  and  vexed  by  domestic  disquiet;  died  after 
five  years  of  dishonor,  in  consequence  of  a cold  induced  by  an 
open-air  experiment,  on  a snowy  day,  to  ascertain  whether  flesh 
might  not  be  preserved  in  snow  as  well  as  in  salt;  consoled,  in 
his  last  hours,  by  the  reflection  that  ‘the  experiment  succeeded 
excellently  well.’ 

Intellectual  Scheme. — With  a just  scorn  for  the  trifles 
which  were  occupying  the  followers  of  Aristotle,  Bacon  early 
conceived  the  dream  of  converting  knowledge  from  a speculative 
waste  into  ‘a  rich  storehouse  for  the  glory  of  the  Creator  and  the 
relief  of  man’s  estate.’  It  was  the  supreme  effort  of  his  life  to 
embody  this  grand  conception  in  the  Instauratio  Magna  — the 
renewal  of  Science  — the  Restoration,  to  man,  of  the  empire  of 
nature.  The  vast  plan,  for  which  many  lives  would  not  have  suf- 
ficed, consisted,  in  its  final  form,  of  six  divisions: 

1.  A survey  of  the  sciences,  a summary  of  all  the  possessions 
of  the  human  mind,  comprehending  ‘not  only  the  things  already 


458  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


invented  and  known,  but  also  those  omitted  and  wanted.’  Here 
occurs  the  famous  but  inadequate  distribution  of  learning  into 
History , which  uses  the  memory;  Poetry , which  employs  the 
imagination;  and  Philosophy , which  Requires  the  reason.  Here, 
in  particular,  occurs  the  short  but  beautiful  paragraph  which 
exhausts  everything  yet  offered  on  the  subject  of  the  beau  ideal: 

‘Therefore  because  the  acts  or  wants  of  true  history  have  not  that  magnitude  which 
satisfieth  the  mind  of  man,  poesy  feigneth  acts  and  events  greater  and  more  heroical ; 
because  true  history  propoundeth  the  successes  and  issues  of  actions,  not  so  agreeable 
to  the  merits  of  virtue  and  vice,  therefore  poesy  feigns  them  more  just  in  retribution, 
and  more  according  to  revealed  Providence;  because  true  history  representeth  actions 
and  events  more  ordinary  and  less  interchanged,  therefore  poesy  indueth  them  with  more 
rareness,  and  more  unexpected  and  alternative  variations.  . . . And  therefore  it  was 
ever  thought  to  have  some  participation  of  divineness,  because  it  doth  raise  and  erect 
the  mind  by  submitting  the  show  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind.’ 

2.  Precepts  for  the  interpretation  of  nature;  ‘the  science  of  a 
better  and  more  perfect  use  of  reason  in  the  investigation  of 
things,  and  of  the  true  aids  of  the  understanding’;  ‘a  kind  of 
logic,  . . . differing  from  the  common  logic  ...  in  three 
respects, — the  end,  the  order  of  demonstrating,  and  the  grounds 
of  inquiry.’  This,  which  is  but  a fragment  of  what  he  had  prom- 
ised, is  known  as  the  Novum  Organum , the  most  admirable  of 
his  books,  and  the  chief  foundation  of  his  fame.  Its  first  por- 
tion enumerates  the  causes  of  error,  the  illusions  to  which  man 
is  subject: 

Idols  of  the  Tribe , to  which  all  by  common  infirmity  are  liable; 

Idols  of  the  Den , such  as  are  peculiar  to  individuals; 

Idols  of  the  Forum , such  as  arise  from  the  current  usage  of 
words; 

Idols  of  the  Theatre , springing  from  Partisanship,  Fashion, 
and  Authority. 

Its  second  portion  describes  and  exemplifies  the  rules  for  con- 
ducting investigations. 

3.  An  extensive  collection  of  facts  and  observations, — the 
Natural  History  of  any  desired  class  of  phenomena, — an  im- 
mense chart  of  nature,  furnishing  the  raw  material  for  the  appli- 
cation of  the  new  method.  But,  in  fact,  an  outline  of  the  field 
to  be  explored,  rather  than  an  exploration;  a sketch  of  what  he 
would  do:  as,  for  instance,  a complete  account  of  comets,  of  me- 
teors, of  winds,  of  rain,  hail,  snow;  the  facts  to  be  accurately 
related  and  distinctly  arranged;  their  authenticity  diligently  ex- 


LORD  BACON. 


459 


amined;  those  that  rest  on  doubtful  evidence,  to  be  noted  as 
uncertain,  with  the  grounds  of  the  judgment  so  formed. 

4.  A scale  of  the  intellect  — a ladder  of  the  understanding  — 
illustrations  of  the  mind’s  gradual  ascent  from  phenomena  to 
principles, — ‘not  such  examples  as  we  subjoin  to  the  several 
rules  of  our  method,  but  types  and  models , which  place  before 
our  eyes  the  entire  process  of  the  mind  in  the  discovery  of  truth, 
selecting  various  and  remarkable  instances.’  Only  a few  intro- 
ductory pages,  however,  are  contributed. 

5.  Specimens  of  the  perfect  system  which  he  hoped  to  erect, 
— provisional  anticipations  of  the  whole,  ‘hereafter  to  be  veri- 
fied,’— a sort  of  scaffolding,  to  be  of  use  only  till  the  building  is 
finished, — ‘the  payment  of  interest  till  the  principal  could  be 
raised.’ 

G.  Science  in  practice  — the  new  philosophy  — the  magnificent 
birth.  ‘To  this  all  the  rest  are  subservient, — to  lay  down  that 
philosophy  which  shall  flow  from  the  just,  pure,  and  strict  inquiry 
hitherto  proposed.’  But,  ‘to  perfect  this  is  beyond  both  our 
abilities  and  our  hopes;  yet  we  shall  lay  the  foundations  of  it, 
' and  recommend  the  superstructure  to  posterity.'1  ‘Such,’  in  the 
language  of  Hallam,  ‘was  the  temple  which  Bacon  saw  in  vision 
before  him:  the  stately  front  and  decorated  pediments,  in  all 
their  breadth  of  light  and  harmony  of  proportion;  while  long 
vistas  of  receding  columns  and  glimpses  of  internal  splendor 
revealed  a glory  that  it  was  not  permitted  him  to  comprehend.’ 
The  world  we  move  in,  is  not  the  world  we  think.  Only  the 
latter  sets  aside  disturbances,  defects,  and  limitations.  There,  at 
least,  the  seamless  heaven  is  attainable.  To  the  consummation 
which  flees  before  him  as  the  shadow  of  his  achievement,  he 
gives  ‘ local  habitation  ’ in  the  New  Atlantis , a philosophical 
romance,  in  which,  with  a poet’s  boldness  and  a seer’s  precision, 
he  describes,  with  almost  literal  exactness,  modern  arts,  acade- 
mies, observatories,  air-balloons,  submarine  vessels,  discovery  of 
remedies,  preservation  of  food,  transmutation  of  species,  and 
whatever  prodigies  cannot  be  proved  to  lie  beyond  the  mighty 
magic  of  time.  Here  is  a college  worthy  of  the  name,  Solo- 
mon’s House,  ‘the  end  of  whose  foundation  is  the  knowledge  of 
causes  and  the  secret  motions  of  things,  and  the  enlarging  of  the 
bounds  of  human  empire  to  the  effecting  of  all  things  possible.’ 


460  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


His  Motive. — The  intense  conviction  that  knowledge,  in  its 
existing  state,  was  barren  of  practical  results, — a waste  wilder- 
ness in  which  successive  generations  had  been  moving  without 
advancing.  He  would  propose  as  the  end  of  thought,  fruit — the 
discovery  of  useful  truth  — victory  over  nature,  not  victory  in 
controversy.  He  would  lead  men  out  of  a sterile  desert,  with  its 
deceitful  mirage,  into  a fertile  country,  with  its  ample  pastures 
and  abiding  cities: 

‘Is  there  any  such  happiness  as  for  a man's  mind  to  be  raised  above  the  confusion  of 
things,  where  he  may  have  the  prospect  of  the  order  of  nature  and  error  of  man?  But  is 
this  a view  of  delight  only  and  not  of  discovery?  of  contentment  and  not  of  benefit? 
Shall  he  not  as  well  discern  the  riches  of  nature's  warehouse  as  the  beauty  of  her  shop? 
Is  truth  ever  barren?  Shall  he  not  be  able  thereby  to  produce  worthy  effects,  and  to 
endow  the  life  of  man  with  infinite  commodities?1 

His  Method. — A different  point  of  arrival  requires  a differ- 
ent path  of  travel.  To  change  the  goal  is  to  transform  the 
method.  ‘ It  would  be  an  unsound  fancy,  and  self-contradictory, 
to  expect  that  things  which  have  never  yet  been  done'  can  be  done 
except  by  means  which  have  never  yet  been  tried.’  The  syllogists 
had  fashioned  nature  according  to  preconceived  ideas,  starting 
from  axioms  not  accurately  obtained,  and  caring  more  for  an 
opinion  than  for  a truth.  But: 

1 Syllogism  consists  of  propositions,  propositions  of  words,  and  words  are  the  signs  of 
notions;  therefore,  if  our  notions , the  basis  of  all , are  confused,  and  over-hastily  taken 
from  things , nothing  that  is  built  upon  them  can  be  firm;  whence  our  only  hope  rests  upon 
genuine  Induction.' 

Not,  however,  the  perfect  induction  which  would  reason  that 
what  we  can  prove  of  a,  b , c,  and  d separately,  we  may  properly 
state  as  true  of  <7,  the  whole;  nor  exactly  the  partial  induction 
which  would  argue  that  what  is  believed  true  of  three  of  the 
species,  is  to  be  believed  as  true  likewise  of  the  fourth,  and 
hence  of  the  genus:  but  a graduated  system  of  helps , by  the  use 
of  which  an  ordinary  mind,  when  started  on  the  right  road,  might 
proceed,  through  successive  stages  of  generality,  with  unerring 
and  mechanical  certainty , to  the  vision  of  fruitful  principles. 
Thus,  for  every  general  effect,  as  heat,  we  must  seek  a general 
condition,  so  that  in  producing  the  condition  we  may  produce 
the  effect.  If  we  find  by  long  and  continued  experience  that  the 
second  uniformly  succeeds  the  first,  w*e  may  conclude,  with  a high 
degree  of  probability,  that  the  connection  between  them  is  neces- 
sary. But,  says  Bacon,  there  is  a shorter  way  to  the  result. 


LORD  BACON. 


461 


From  the  copious  Natural  History  which  I contemplate,  make 
out  as  complete  and  accurate  an  account  of  the  facts  connected 
with  the  subject  of  inquiry,  as  possible;  select,  compare,  and 
scrutinize  these  according  to  the  rules  stated  in  the  second  book 
of  my  Organum , and  by  the  same  rules  conduct  your  experi- 
ments, if  experiments  are  admissible:  that  is,  you  are  to  construct 
the  table  of  causes  from  which  the  effect  is  absent,  the  table 
where  it  is  present,  and  the  table  where  it  is  shown  in  various 
degrees;  then,  ‘by  fit  rejections  and  exclusions ,’  extract  the  con- 
dition sought.  Light,  for  example,  is  denied  to  be  the  cause  or 
form  of  heat,  because  light  is  found  to  be  present  in  the  instance 
of  the  moon’s  rays,  while  heat  is  absent. 

Thus  philosophy  resembles  a compass,  with  whose  aid  the 
novice  can  draw  a better  circle  or  line  than  the  expert  can  pro- 
duce without  it. 

Its  Spirit. — A curious  piece  of  machinery,  you  will  say,  very 
subtle,  very  elaborate,  very  ingenious.  You  will  suspect,  also, 
that  nothing  has  been  accomplished  by  it;  that  it  has  solved  no 
problems.  True,  but  its  merit  lies  in  the  general  advice  which 
developed  it,  in  the  wise  and  eminently  scientific  spirit  which 
pervades  it.  To  pluck  a few  illustrations  from  his  string  of 
aphorisms: 

‘Man,  the  minister  and  interpreter  of  Nature,  can  act  and  understand  in  as  far  as 
he  has,  either  in  fact  or  in  thought,  observed  the  order  of  Nature;  more  he  can  neither 
know  nor  do.’ 

‘The  real  cause  and  root  of  almost  all  the  evils  in  science  is  this:  that,  falsely  mag- 
nifying and  extolling  the  poivers  of  the  mind , we  seek  not  its  real  helps.’ 

‘ The  human  understanding  is  like  an  unequal  mirror  to  the  rays  of  things,  which, 
mixing  its  own  nature  with  the  nature  of  things , distorts  and  perverts  them.' 

‘The  understanding,  when  left  to  itself,  takes  the  first  of  these  ways;  for  the  mind 
delights  in  springing  up  to  the  most  general  axioms,  that  it  may  find  rest;  but  after  a 
short  stay  there,  it  disdains  experience , and  these  mischiefs  are  at  length  increased  by 
logic,  for  the  ostentation  of  disputes.’ 

For  the  first  time,  Science  is  sundered  from  Metaphysics 
and  Theology,  and  Physics  is  constituted  ‘the  mother  of  all  the 
sciences.’  This  is  eminently  f>ositive,  and  hence  entirely  modern. 
Nothing  could  be  more  thoroughly  opposed  to  antiquity: 

‘ The  opinion  which  men  entertain  of  antiquity  is  a very  idle  thing,  and  almost  incon- 
gruous to  the  word;  for  the  old  age  and  length  of  days  of  the  world  should  in  reality  be 
accounted  antiquity,  and  ought  to  be  attributed  to  our  own  times,  not  to  the  youth  of  the 
world  which  it  enjoyed  among  the  ancients;  for  that  age,  though  with  x*espect  to  us  it  be 
ancient  and  greater,  yet  with  regard  to  the  world  it  was  new  and  less.’ 


462  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Whence  can  arise  the  sterility  of  the  physical  systems  hitherto 
in  vogue  ? — 

‘ It  is  not,  certainly,  from  any  thing  in  nature  itself ; for  the  steadiness  and  regularity 
of  the  laws  by  which  it  is  governed , clearly  mark,  them  out  as  objects  of  precise  and  certain 
knowledge .’ 

Nor  from  the  want  of  talent,  but  from  ‘the  perverseness  and  in- 
sufficiency of  the  methods  which  have  been  pursued’: 

‘Men  have  sought  to  make  a world  from  their  own  conceptions,  and  to  draw  from 
their  own  minds  all  the  materials  which  they  employed;  but  if,  instead  of  doing  so,  they 
had  consulted  experience  and  observation,  they  would  have  had/acte.’ 

But: 

‘As  things  are  at  present  conducted,  a sudden  transition  is  made  from  sensible 
objects  and  particular  facts  to  general  propositions , which  are  accounted  principles , and 
round  which,  as  round  so  many  fixed  poles,  disputation  and  argument  continually 
revolve." 

Quite  the  reverse  is  the  way  that  promises  success: 

‘It  requires  that  we  should  generalize  slowly , going  from  particular  things  to  those 
that  are  but  one  step  more  general ; from  those  to  those  of  still  greater  extent , and  so  on 
to  such  as  are  universal.  By  such  means  we  may  hope  to  arrive  at  principles,  not  vague 
and  obscure,  but  luminous  and  well-defined,  such  as  Nature  herself  will  not  refuse  to 
acknowledge.’ 

Its  Novelty. — It  is  already  apparent  that  Bacon  understood 
his  method  to  be  original,  though  he  admits  that  Plato  had  used 
a method  somewhat  akin  to  his  own: 

‘The  induction  which  is  to  be  available  for  the  discovery  and  demonstration  of  sci- 
ences and  art  must  analyse  nature  by  proper  rejections  and  exclusions;  and  then,  after 
a sufficient  number  of  negatives,  come  to  a conclusion  on  the  affirmative  instances, 
which  has  not  yet  been  done,  or  even  attempted,  save  only  by  Plato.’ 

Induction,  as  such,  had  been  defined  by  Aristotle,  though  he 
seems  to  have  regarded  it  as  less  important  than  the  syllogism. 
Roger  Bacon  had  insisted  on  experience  as  the  truest  guide.  At 
this  very  moment,  it  was  being  employed  on  the  Continent,  nota- 
bly by  Galileo,  in  whose  dialogues  the  Aristotelian  disputant  fre- 
quently appeals  to  observation  and  experiment.  It  was  latent  in 
the  tendencies  of  the  age, — as  the  steam-engine  was  latent  in 
the  tendencies  of  the  age  of  Watt.  But  (1)  no  one  till  now  had 
coordinated  into  a compact  body  of  doctrine  all  the  elements  of 
the  Inductive  Method,  nor  (2)  had  any  one  even  attempted  that 
part  in  which  the  author  took  most  pride, — the  process  of  exclu- 
sion or  rejection.1 

■Mr.  Macaulay  is  correct  when  he  says:  ‘The  inductive  method  has  been  practised 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  world  by  every  human  being.  It  is  constantly  practised 
by  the  most  ignorant  clown.’  He  is  egregiously  i/icorrect  wnen  he  adds  that  ‘everybody 


LORD  BACON. 


463 


Its  Utility.  — Nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that  the 
inductive  sciences  have  not  followed  it.  No  great  physicist  has 
used  it.  No  important  discovery  has  been  effected  by  it.  It  has 
no  present  intrinsic  value.  It  has  long  been  superseded  by  a 
better.  It  can  be  made  applicable  only  when  the  phenomena  of 
the  universe  have  been  tabulated  and  arranged: 

‘It  comes,  therefore,  to  this,  that  my  Organum , even  if  it  were  completed,  would  not 
without  the  Natural  History  much  advance  the  Instauration  of  the  Sciences , whereas  the 
Natural  ITistory  without  the  Organum  would  advance  it  not  a little.’ 

The  true  scientific  procedure,  moreover,  is  by  hypothesis,  followed 
up  and  tested  by  verification.  Kepler  tried  twenty  guesses  on  the 
orbit  of  Mars,  and  the  last  fitted  the  facts.  But  the  Organum 
does  not  admit  hypotheses  as  guides  to  investigation.1 

It  was  indirectly,  however,  of  inestimable  service, — by  its  gen- 
eral spirit,  by  its  systematization  of  the  new  mode  of  thinking, 
by  the  power  and  eloquence  with  which  it  was  expounded  and 
enforced.  If  its  details,  on  which  was  laid  the  greatest  stress, 
have  not  been  useful,  it  was  still  the  basis  of  the  more  perfect 
structure  which  successors  have  erected.  Induction  had  been 
adopted  from  accident  or  from  taste;  it  was  henceforth  to  be 
applied  and  defended  on  principle. 

Essays.  — Bacon’s  philosophical  writings  have  operated  on 
mankind  through  a school  of  intermediate  agents.  To  the  multi- 
tude he  is  best  known  by  the  Essays,  in  which  he  talks  to  plain 
men  in  language  intelligible  to  all,  on  subjects  in  which  every- 
body is  interested.  Never  was  observation  at  once  more  recon- 
dite, better  matured,  and  more  carefully  sifted;  attractive  for  the 
fulness  of  imagination  that  draws  so  many  stately  pictures,  and 
for  the  wise  reflection  that  suggests  so  many  wholesome  truths. 
Here  are  a few  sample  thoughts  for  memory  and  for  use  — texts 
for  sermons  and  dissertations,  if  you  will: 


is  constantly  performing  the  process  described  in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum  Orga- 
num.' Here  (1)  the  brilliant  essayist  confounds  simple  incautious  induction  with  cautious 
methodical  induction,  between  which  there  is  as  much  difference  as  between  instinct 
and  science.  (2)  In  experimental  philosophy,  to  which  the  rules  of  the  Organum  espe- 
cially referred,  there  was  a notorious  want  of  inductive  reasoning.  (3)  Not  only  had 
Bacon’s  peculiar  system  of  rules  never  been  applied  before, — they  have  never  been 
applied  since.  Macaulay  has  had  followers,  hut  his  argument  receives  its  force  solely 
from  a misconception  of  the  Baconian  method.  Draper  (Intellectual  Development  of 
Europe)  is  guilty  of  like  confusion  when  he  asserts  that  the  Baconian  principles  were 
understood  eighteen  hundred  years  before;  and  of  lamentable  ignorance  when  he  adds 
that  ‘they  were  carried  into  practice.’  Its  inaccuracies  and  partisanship  have  abated 
greatly  our  early  enthusiasm  for  this  still  valuable  work. 

1 Very  surprising,  after  this,  is  the  declaration  of  Taine:  ‘After  more  than  two  cen- 
turies, it  is  still  to  him  that  we  go  to  discover  the  theory  of  what  we  are  attempting  and 
doing.’  The  mistake  arises  from  confounding  induction  with  the  Baconian  method  of 
induction. 


464  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Of  beauty, — 

‘Virtue  is  like  a rich  stone  — best  plain  set.’ 

Of  happiness, — 

‘They  are  happy  men  whose  natures  sort  with  their  vocations.’ 

Of  youth  and  age, — 

‘A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time.’ 

Of  nature  in  men, — 

‘A  man's  nature  runs  either  to  herbs  or  weeds;  therefore,  let  him  seasonably  water 
the  one,  and  destroy  the  other.1 

Of  riches, — 

‘ A great  estate  left  to  an  heir,  is  as  a lure  to  all  the-  birds  of  prey  round  about  to  seize 
on  him,  if  he  be  not  the  better  stablished  in  years  and  judgment." 

Of  friendship, — 

‘ There  is  no  man  that  impartetli  his  joys  to  his  friend,  but  he  joyeth  the  more;  and 
no  man  that  imparteth  his  griefs  to  his  friend,  but  he  grieveth  the  less." 

Of  love, — 

‘ There  was  never  proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  well  of  himself  as  the  lover  doth  of 
the  person  loved;  and  therefore  it  was  well  said,  “ That  it  is  impossible  to  love  and  to  be 
wise.”  ’ 

Of  envy, — 

‘ He  that  cannot  possibly  mend  his  own  case,  will  do  what  he  can  to  impair  another's.’ 

Of  marriage, — 

‘ He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given  hostages  to  fortune ; for  they  are  impedi- 
ments to  great  enterprises,  either  of  virtue  or  mischief.’ 

And, — 

‘Grave  natures,  led  by  custom,  and  therefore  constant,  are  commonly  loving  hus- 
bands." 

Again, — 

‘ It  is  one  of  the  best  bonds,  both  of  chastity  and  obedience,  in  the  wife,  if  she  thinks- 
her  husband  wise,  which  she  will  never  do  if  she  find  him  jealous.’ 

Of  gardens, — 

‘ God  Almighty  first  planted  a garden,— and,  indeed,  it  is  the  purest  of  human  pleas- 
ures; it  is  the  greatest  refreshment  to  the  spirits  of  man;  without  which  buildings  and 
palaces  are  but  gross  handy  works;  and  a man  shall  ever  see,  that,  when  ages  grow  to 
civility  and  elegancy,  men  come  to  build  stately,  sooner  than  to  garden  finely;  as  if  gar- 
dening were  the  greater  perfection." 

It  is  by  their  inexhaustible  aliment  and  illustrative  enrichment, 
that  the  Essays  belong  most  to  literature.  Few  books  are  more 
quoted,  few  are  more  generally  read.  ‘ These,  of  all  my  works/ 
says  Bacon,  ‘have  been  most  current;  for  that,  as  it  seems,  they 
come  home  to  men's  businesse  and  bosomes .’  He  justly  foretold 
that  they  would  ( live  as  long  as  books  last.’  Their  brief,  pithy  say- 
ings have  passed  into  popular  mottoes  and  household  words,  like  — 


LORD  BACON. 


465 


‘Jewels,  five  words  long, 

That  on  the  stretched  forefinger  of  all  time 
Sparkle  forever.’ 

Style.  — Clear  and  strong,  elaborate  and  full  of  color,  replete 
with  images  that  serve  only  to  concentrate  meditation;  now  in  an 
apothegmatic  sentence: 

‘A  crowd  is  not  company;  and  faces  are  but  a gallery  of  pictures;  and  talk  but  a 
tinkling  cymbal,  when  there  is  no  love.’ 

Now  in  the  majesty  of  a grand  period: 

‘For  as  water,  whether  it  be  the  dew  of  Heaven  or  the  springs  of  the  earth,  easily 
scatters  and  loses  itself  in  the  ground,  except  it  be  collected  into  some  receptacle,  where 
it  may  by  union  and  consort  comfort  and  sustain  itself  (and  for  that  cause,  the  industry 
•of  man  has  devised  aqueducts,  cisterns,  and  pools,  and  likewise  beautified  them  with 
various  ornaments  of  magnificence  and  state,  as  well  as  for  use  and  necessity);  so  this 
excellent  liquor  of  knowledge,  whether  it  descend  from  divine  inspiration  or  spring  from 
human  sense,  would  soon  perish  and  vanish  into  oblivion,  if  it  were  not  preserved  in 
books,  traditions,  conferences,  and  especially  in  places  appointed  for  such  matters,  as 
universities,  colleges,  and  schools,  where  it  may  have  both  a fixed  habitation,  and  means 
and  opportunity  of  increasing  and  collecting  itself.' 

Now  in  the  symmetry  of  concise  and  well-balanced  antithesis: 

‘Crafty  men  contemn  studies;  simple  men  admire  them;  and  wise  men  use  them; 
for  they  teach  not  their  own  use:  that  is  a wisdom  without  them,  and  won  by  observa- 
tion. Read  not  to  contradict,  nor  to  believe,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are 
to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested.  Reading 
maketh  a full  man,  conference  a ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore 
if  a man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a great  memory;  if  he  confer  little,  have  a present 
wit ; and  if  he  read  little,  have  much  cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories 
make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathematics  subtle,  natural  philosophy  deep,  morals 
grave,  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to  contend.’ 

A passage  to  be  cliciccd  and  digested.  Always  grave,  often 
metaphorical,  his  style  grew  richer  and  softer  with  increasing 
years.  Not  long  before  his  death,  he  wrote: 

‘Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the 
New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  benediction  and  the  clearer  evidences  of  God's  favour. 
Yet,  even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as  many 
hearse-like  airs  as  carols;  and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  laboured  more  in  de- 
scribing the  afflictions  of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without 
many  fears  and  distastes;  and  adversity  is  not  without  comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in 
needleworks  and  embroideries  it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a lively  work  upon  a sad  and 
solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a lightsome  ground. 
Judge  therefore  of  the  pleasures  of  the  heart  by  the  pleasures  of  the  eye.  Certainly 
virtue  is  like  precious  odours,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or  crushed;  for 
prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue.’ 

Shakespeare,  with  far  greater  variety,  contains  no  more  vigorous 
or  expressive  condensations. 

Bacon  feared  that  the  modern  languages  would  6 at  one  time 
•or  another  play  the  bankrupt  with  books.’  Dreading  to  trust  the 
30 


466  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


mutability  of  English,  he  composed  the  Instauratio  in  Latin, 
which  fifteen  centuries  had  fixed  sacred  from  innovations;  and 
into  the  same  tongue  his  vernacular  compositions  were  translated 
by  himself  and  friends  — Jonson,  Hobbes,  and  Herbert. 

Rank. — The  principal  figure  in  English  prose;  the  most  com- 
prehensive, cultivated,  and  originative  thinker  of  the  age;  the 
master  spirit  of  the  long-agitated  antagonism  to  ancient  and 
scholastic  thought;  the  first  great  exponent  of  the  increasing 
tendency  to  positivism;  the  first  to  systematize  the  inductive 
process,  to  teach  its  extensive  use,  to  give  it  a clear  appreciation; 
and  thus  the  great  leader  in  the  reformation  of  modern  science. 
Not  strictly  a scientist  — rather  a scientific  philosopher  — an 
expounder  of  the  scientific  spirit  and  method  — a surveyor  who 
broadly  mapped  the  road  — the  philosopher  more  of  human  than 
of  general  nature.  He  belongs  to  the  realm  of  imagination,  of 
eloquence,  of  history,  of  jurisprudence,  of  ethics,  of  metaphysics 
— the  investigation  of  the  powers  and  operations  of  the  human 
mind.  His  writings  have  the  gravity  of  prose,  with  the  fervor 
and  vividness  of  poetry;  in  this,  unlike  those  of  the  materialistic 
succession,  such  as  Spencer  and  Mill;  but  resembling  those  of 
Plato,  who  was  loftier,  and  of  Burke,  who  was  less  profound. 

Commanding  as  is  his  merit,  he  has  perhaps  been  overrated. 
The  time  was  ripe.  He  had  better  eyes  than  his  fellow-men,  and 
found  what  others  were  seeking.  More  judicial  than  they,  he 
gave  expression  to  ideas  already  in  the  air.  The  epoch-making 
genius  gathers  up  in  a harmonious  vibration  a thousand  buzzing 
and  swelling  voices.  He  did  not  thoroughly  understand  the 
older  philosophy  which  he  attacked,  nor  accurately  anticipate  the 
methods  of  the  new.  In  banishing  deduction,  he  failed  to  see 
that  it  makes  up  with  induction  the  double  enginery  of  thought. 
His  circle  of  observation  was  external.  But  within  that,  are 
ideas  which  experience  can  never  furnish  — ideas  necessary,  abso- 
lute, eternal;  truths  which  it  were  madness  to  deny,  folly  to 
attempt  to  prove,  and  without  which  reason  could  not  advance  a 
step, — as,  matter  has  uniform  and  fixed  laws ; qualities  imply  a 
sid)stance.  Without  an  assumption  of  the  first,  the  simplest  pro- 
cess of  induction  is  impossible.  He  who  doubts  the  second,  can 
make  no  pretension  to  the  knowledge  of  spiritual  and  material 
essence.  Ignorant  of  geometry,  he  had  no  prevision  of  the 


LORD  BACON. 


467 


important  part  that  mathematics  was  to  perform  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  nature.  Galileo  revived  that  science,  excelled  in  it,  first 
applied  it,  and  fortified  with  new  proofs  the  system  of  Coperni- 
cus, which  Bacon  rejected  with  positive  disdain: 

‘In  the  system  of  Copernicus  there  are  many  and  grave  difficulties;  for  the  threefold 
motion  with  which  he  encumbers  the  earth  is  a serious  inconvenience,  and  the  separa- 
tion of  the  sun  from  the  planets,  with  which  he  has  so  many  affections  in  common,  is 
likewise  a harsh  step;  and  the  introduction  of  so  many  immovable  bodies  in  nature,  as 
when  he  makes  the  sun  and  stars  immovable,  the  bodies  which  are  peculiarly  lucid  and 
radiant,  and  his  making  the  moon  adhere  to  the  earth  in  a sort  of  epicycle,  and  some 
other  things  which  he  assumes,  are  proceedings  which  mark  a man  who  thinks  nothing 
of  introducing  fictions  of  any  kind  into  nature,  provided  his  calculations  turn  out  well.' 

He  did  not  use  skilfully  his  own  system.  His  conjectures  in 
physics,  though  often  acute,  are  often  chimerical,  owing  to  his 
defective  acquaintance  with  natural  phenomena.  He  saw,  from 
the  mountain-top,  the  Promised  Land,  pointed  it  out,  but  did  not 
enter  there.  In  any  special  department,  he  has  latterly  been  ex- 
celled by  many.  There  have  been  thousands  of  better  astrono- 
mers, chemists,  physicians.  But  in  wide-ranging  intellect,  in  the 
union  of  speculative  power  with  practical  utility,  he  has  been 
equalled  by  none. 

Character. — As  a boy,  he  was  delicate  in  health,  indifferent 
to  the  sports  of  youth,  quick  and  curious  in  mind,  with  that 
sweet  sobriety  of  manner  which  led  the  queen  to  call  him  ‘my 
young  Lord  Keeper.’  Still  in  his  ‘teens,’  he  saw,  in  dim  vision, 
a philosoj}hic  revolution.  He  solicited  employment  only  that  he 
might  have  leisure  to  become  a ‘ pioneer  in  the  deep  mines  of 
truth;  not  being  born  under  Sol,  that  loveth  honor,  nor  under 
Jupiter  that  loveth  business,  but  being  wholly  carried  away  by 
the  contemplative  planet.’  At  the  moment  of  his  greatest  eleva- 
tion, he  said:  ‘The  depth  of  three  long  vacations  I would  reserve 
in  some  measure  free  from  business  of  estate,  and  for  studies, 
arts,  and  sciences,  to  which  of  my  own  nature  I am  most  in- 
clined.’ 

His  point  of  view  was  so  exalted  that  he  saw  the  eddying, 
dashing  stream  of  human  events  as  a motionless  silvery  thread 
in  the  plain;  so  profound  that  his  reflections  shine  like  the  far-off 
stars  seen  from  the  bottom  of  the  deep  sunken  shaft;  his  circle 
so  spacious,  that  it  took  in  all  the  domains  of  science, — the  errors 
of  the  past,  the  signs  of  the  present,  the  hopes  of  the  future. 
Like  the  archangel  glancing  from  heaven  to  earth, — 


468  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


‘Round  he  surveyed  — and  well  might,  where  he  stood 
So  high  above  the  circling  canopy 
Of  night’s  extended  shade  — from  eastern  point 
Of  Libra,  to  the  fleecy  star  which  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas 
Beyond  the  horizon.1 

What  he  was  as  a writer,  he  was  as  an  orator.  Ben  Jonson  wit- 
nessed his  eloquence: 

‘ There  happened  in  my  time  one  noble  speaker  who  was  full  of  gravity  in  his  speak- 
ing. His  language,  where  he  could  spare  or  pass  by  a jest,  was  nobly  censorious.  No 
man  ever  spoke  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less  emptiness, 
less  idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  No  member  of  his  speech  but  consisted  of  his  own 
graces.  His  hearers  could  not  cough  or  look  aside  from  him  without  loss.  He  com- 
manded where  he  spoke,  and  had  his  judges  angry  and  pleased  at  his  devotion.  No  man 
had  their  affections  more  in  his  power.  The  fear  of  every  man  that  heard  him  was  lest 
he  should  make  an  end.1 

Like  Shakespeare  and  the  rest,  he  grasped  objects,  not  frac- 
tionally, but  organized  and  complete.  Like  them,  he  speaks  in 
the  style  of  an  oracle.  He  will  not  dispute,  though  he  moves 
against  a vast  mass  of  prejudices.  He  condenses  the  details  into 
a maxim,  and  hands  us  the  result,  with  the  words,  ‘ Francis  of 
Venilam  thought  thus .’ 

He  has  the  strong  common  sense  which  marks  the  English 
mind.  He  will  not  catch  at  clouds.  He  must  stand  on  a fact, — 
a palpable  and  resisting  fact.  His  motto  is,  experiment,  again 
and  again  experiment.  The  end  of  knowledge  is  empire  over 
matter.  Plato  and  Seneca  would  extinguish  cupidity;  Bacon 
would  secure  property.  They  would  teach  us  to  endure  pain;  he 
would  assuage  it.  They  would  form  the  mind  to  a high  degree 
of  wisdom  and  virtue;  he  would  minister  to  the  comforts  of  the 
body,  without  neglecting  moral  and  religious  instruction.  He 
lacks  the  upright  bias, — insight  into  transcendental  truths. 

He  was  a thinker  living  amid  the  turmoil  of  a fresh  and  stir- 
ring life,  yet  with  the  genius  of  counsel  rather  than  of  action. 
Scorning  the  least  prudential  care  of  his  fortune,  he  was  often 
in  pecuniary  distress.  On  one  occasion  he  was  arrested  in  the 
street  for  a debt,  and  lodged  in  a spunging-house.  His  heart, 
he  declared,  was  not  set  on  exterior  things.  His  purpose  was 
noble.  1 1 am  not  hunting  for  fame.  I have  no  desire  to  found  a 
sect.’  ‘Enough  for  me, — the  consciousness  of  well-deserving,  and 
those  real  and  effectual  results  with  which  fortune  itself  cannot 
interfere.’ 

But  mortal  greatness  is  not  without  mortal  infirmity.  He  who 


LORD  BACON. 


469 


was  to  teach  us  how  to  philosophize,  was  himself  fascinated  by 
magical  sympathies,  surmised  why  witches  eat  human  flesh;  as- 
serted: ‘It  is  constantly  received  and  avouched,  that  the  anoint - 
big  of  the  weapon  that  maketh  the  wound  will  heal  the  wound 
itself;’  presented  Prince  Henry,  as  ‘the  first-fruits  of  his  philoso- 
phy, a sympathizing  stone , made  of  several  mixtures,  to  know 
the  heart  of  man,’  whose  ‘operative  gravity,  magnetic  and  magi- 
cal, would  show,  by  the  hand  which  held  it,  whether  the  heart 
was  warm  and  affectionate.’  He  dictated  the  laws  and  economy 
of  Nature,  and  was  himself  enamored  of  state  and  magnificence. 
He  took  a feminine  delight  in  the  brilliancy  of  his  robes,  loved 
to  be  grazed  on  in  the  streets,  and  to  be  wondered  at  in  the  cabi- 
net.  He  championed  the  cause  of  intellectual  freedom,  and  was 
himself  a servile  intriguer  for  place.  A devoted  worshipper  of 
truth,  he  had  the  double  temper  of  a lawyer  and  a politician, — 
duplicity.  As  utility  was  his  watchword,  he  assiduously  courted 
the  favor  of  all  who  were  likely  to  be  of.  use  to  him;  and  might 
prop  the  fortunes  of  a friend, — till  he  was  in  danger  of  shaking 
his  own.  Loved,  trusted,  and  befriended  by  Essex,  he  bore  a 
principal  part  in  sending  that  nobleman  to  the  scaffold.  In  his 
judicial  capacity,  pledged  to  discharge  his  functions  impartially, 
he  accepted  bribes  from  plaintiff  and  defendant.  His  illicit  gains 
were  stated  at  a hundred  thousand  pounds.  After  he  had  tried 
in  vain  to  avert  the  sudden  and  terrible  reverse,  he  wrote  to  the 
Peers:  ‘Upon  advised  consideration  of  the  charges,  descending 
into  my  own  conscience,  and  calling  my  memory  to  account  so 
far  as  I am  able,  I do  plainly  and  ingenuously  confess  that  I am 
guilty  of  corruption,  and  do  renounce  all  defence.’  ‘ My  lords,’ 
said  he  to  the  deputies  who  came  to  inquire  whether  the  con- 
fession was  really  subscribed  by  himself,  ‘it  is  my  act,  my  hand, 
my  heart.  I beseech  your  lordships  to  be  merciful  to  a broken 
reed.’ 

He  had  none  of  the  fire  of  sentiment  or  passion, — none  of  the 
kindling  impulses  which  give  intensity  to  character.  To  impulse 
he  was  serenely,  coldly  superior.  Let  us  hope  that  his  wife  was 
equally  unimpassioned, — a pure  intelligence,  craving  no  love, 
for  it  is  doubtful  if  she  received  any.  He  desired  to  marry  Lady 
Hatton,  not  for  her  disposition,  which  was  that  of  an  eccentric 
termagant,  but  for  her  money.  Though  indifferent  or  selfish  in 


470  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


personal  relations,  he  had  the  mellow  spirit  of  humanity,  without 
which,  he  tells  us,  ‘ men  are  but  a better  kind  of  vermin.’  His 
benevolence  embraced  all  races  and  all  ages.  This  philanthropy 
which  distinguishes  between  individuals  and  mankind,  and  which 
we  believe,  after  all,  to  have  formed  the  essential  feeling  of  his 
soul,  is  expressed  in  the  description  of  one  of  the  fathers  of 
Solomon’s  House:  ‘ His  countenance  was  as  the  countenance  of 
one  who  pitties  men .’ 

As  he  preserved  a calm  neutrality,  though  living  in  an  age  of 
controversy,  his  creed,  if  he  held  any,  may  not  be  told.  Theology 
is  relegated  to  the  province  of  faith.  i If  I proceed  to  treat  of  it,’ 
he  said,  4 1 shall  step  out  of  the  bark  into  the  ship  of  the  Church. 
Neither  will  the  stars  of  philosophy,  which  have  hitherto  so  nobly 
shone  on  us,  any  longer  give  us  their  light.’  But  speculation  is 
profitless,  and  scepticism  is  powerless,  before  these  vital,  grand, 
imperial  words: 

‘I  had  rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the  legend,  and  the  Talmud,  and  the  Alcoran, 
than  that  this  universal  frame  is  without  a mind.’ 

He  cultivated  letters  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life.  We  could 
fancy  him  awaiting  the  signal  for  his  departure,  without  boldness 
and  without  fear,  with  that  sublime  reliance  on  the  future  which 
makes  the  hour  of  evening  tranquil.  He  contemplated  the  end 
with  the  composure  that  becomes  the  scholar: 

‘I  have  often  thought  upon  death,  and  I find  it  the  least  of  all  evils.  All  that  which 
is  past  is  as  a dream;  and  he  that  hopes  or  depends  upon  time  coming,  dreams  waking. 
So  much  of  our  life  as  we  have  discovered  is  already  dead;  and  all  those  hours  which  we 
share,  even  from  the  breasts  of  our  mothers,  until  we  return  to  our  grandmother  the 
earth,  are  part  of  our  dying  days,  whereof  even  this  is  one,  and  those  that  succeed  are  of 
the  same  nature,  for  we  die  daily;  and,  as  others  have  given  place  to  us,  so  we  must,  in 
the  end,  give  way  to  others.1 

Then,  as  if  sensibly  passing  to  the  last  rest: 

‘ Mine  eyes  begin  to  discharge  their  watch,  and  compound  with  this  fleshly  weakness 
for  a time  of  perpetual  rest;  and  I shall  presently  be  as  happy  for  a few  hours,  as  I had 
died  the  first  hour  I was  born.’ 

Not  without  emotion  do  we  read: 

‘First,  I bequeath  my  soul  and  body  into  the  hands  of  God  by  the  blessed  oblation 
of  my  Saviour;  the  one  at  the  time  of  my  dissolution,  the  other  at  the  time  of  my  resur- 
rection. For  my  burial,  I desire  it  may  be  in  St.  Michael's  Church,  near  St.  Albans: 
there  was  my  mother  buried.  . . . For  my  name  and  memory,  I leave  it  to  men's  charita- 
ble speeches,  and  to  foreign  nations,  and  the  next  ages.1 

Influence.  — He  confirmed  and  accelerated  the  new  move- 
ment bv  a thorough  and  large  apprehension  of  its  bent  and  value. 


LORD  BACON. 


471 


At  home,  his  authority,  within  forty  years,  was  the  subject  of 
complaint.  Abroad,  treatises  were  written  on  his  method,  and 
academies  were  formed  which  expressly  recognised  him  as  their 
master.  In  France  it  was  said:  ‘However  numerous  and  impor- 
tant be  the  discoveries  reserved  for  posterity,  it  will  always  be 
just  to  say  of  him,  that  he  laid  the  foundation  of  their  success, 
so  that  the  glory  of  this  great  man,  so  far  from  diminishing  with 
the  progress  of  time,  is  destined  to  receive  perpetual  increase.’ 

He  had  taken  all  knowledge  for  his  province,  and  all  realms 
were  to  be  affected: 

‘One  may  doubt,  not  to  say  object,  whether  it  is  natural  philosophy  alone  that  we 
speak  of  perfecting  by  our  method,  or  other  sciences  as  well  — logic,  ethics,  politics. 
But  we  certainly  intend  what  has  been  said  as  applicable  to  all;  and  as  the  common  logic 
which  governs  by  syllogisms  pertains  not  only  to  natural  but  to  all  sciences,  so  also  our 
own,  which  proceeds  by  induction,  embraces  all.’ 

Hence  his  influence,  though  indirect,  due  to  the  practical  or 
positive  spirit  of  his  method,  has  perhaps  been  more  powerful 
on  mental  and  moral  than  on  physical  science;  for  the  dominant 
principle  of  modern  psychology  is,  that  experience,  exterior  and 
interior,  is  the  only  origin  of  knowledge.  ‘The  philosophy  of 
Locke,’  says  Degerando,  ‘ought  to  have  been  called  the  philoso- 
phy of  Bacon.’  Not  without  justice,  may  he  be  looked  upon  as 
the  inspiration  of  that  empirical  school  which  numbers  among  its 
adherents  such  names  as  Hobbes,  Locke,  Hume,  Hartley,  Mill, 
Condillac,  and  others  of  less  note. 

We  have  elsewhere  indicated  some  of  the  ‘fruits’  of  the  new 
philosophy.  We  have  also  explained  that  in  illuminating  the 
physical  field,  it  has  darkened  the  intellectual  and  moral.  It  has 
furnished  a lamp  to  guide  our  feet  through  the  outer  world,  but 
none  to  light  our  way  to  the  inward.  It  has  fastened  upon  ethics 
an  earthy  utilitarian  temper,  taking  no  account  of  the  motives 
that  drop  from  the  skies. 

We  have  remarked,  too,  those  profound  reflections  which,  be- 
sides forming  a treasure  of  ethical  and  political  wisdom,  have 
stimulated  the  thought  and  suggested  the  inquiries  of  after 
times.  If  to-day  a scientist  wishes  to  express  compactly  his 
scorn  of  dogmatism,  of  custom,  it  is  to  the  Orgcinum  that  he 
goes  for  an  aphorism.  Volumes  have  been  written  in  the  expan- 
sion of  its  statements.  The  ideas  of  the  Essays  have  become 


472  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


domesticated,  and  have  been  continually  reproduced,  to  enrich 
and  enlarge  the  individual  and  collective  mind. 

Finally,  mournfully,  my  lord,  you  whose  glorious  day-dream 
is  hourly  accomplishing  around  us,  whose  inductive  spell  has 
proved  more  puissant  than  the  incantations  of  Merlin, — you 
have  left  to  all  the  children  of  men,  from  your  own  checkered 
life  of  magnificence  and  of  shame,  this  retributive,  warning  in- 
duction, albeit  not  contemplated  in  your  scheme:  When  man 
departs  from  the  divine  means  of  reaching  the  divine  end , he 
suffers  harm  and  loss. 


MILTON. 

Three  poets  in  three  distant  ages  born, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn; 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 

The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last: 

The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go, — 

To  make  a third,  she  joined  the  other  two .—Dryclen. 

Biography. — Born  in  London,  in  1608,  son  of  a Puritan 
scrivener;  inherited  from  his  father  literary  tastes  and  a love 
of  music,  from  his  mother  a gentle  nature  and  weak  eyes;  was 
instructed  first  by  private  tuition,  sent  to  school  at  twelve,  and  at 
sixteen  entered  Cambridge;  took  the  usual  degrees,  and  returned 
home,  to  spend  five  soft  flowing  years  among  the  woods  of  Hor- 
ton; read  the  classics  and  wrote;  travelled  on  the  Continent; 
formed  the  acquaintance  of  Grotius  at  Paris,  and  of  Galileo  at 
Florence;  fed  his  imagination  on  Italian  scenery,  art,  and  letters; 
received  some  distinction,  and  was  excluded  from  others  by  his 
liberal  utterances  on  religion;  was  about  to  start  for  Sicily  and 
Greece,  but,  hearing  of  the  pending  rupture  between  the  king 
and  parliament,  hastened  back  to  England,  too  conscientious  to 
pass  his  life  in  foreign  amusements  while  his  countrymen  were 
contending  for  their  rights;  while  waiting  for  a call  to  service, 
conducted  a private  school;  taught  many  years  and  at  various 
times;  threw  himself  into  the  raging  sea  of  controversy,  against 
the  Royalists  and  the  Established  Church;  at  thirty-five,  within  a 
month  after  meeting  her,  married  Mary  Powel,  who,  four  weeks 


MILTON. 


473 


afterwards,  repelled  by  spare  diet  and  austere  manners,  returned 
to  her  parents;  wrote  to  her,  but  got  no  answer;  sent,  and  his 
messenger  was  ill-treated;  determined  to  repudiate  her  for  disobe- 
dience, published  essays  on  Divorce , held  himself  absolved  from 
the  bond;  paid  court  to  another  lady  of  great  accomplishments, 
but  suddenly,  seeing  his  wife  on  her  knees  imploring  forgiveness, 
received  her  back,  and  lived  with  her  until  her  death;  in  later  life 
married  twice,  the  last  time  to  a woman  thirty  years  his  junior; 
meanwhile,  had  become  Latin  secretary  to  Cromwell;  carried  on 
the  wordy  strife  with  puritanical  savageness,  and  lost  his  sight 
willingly  in  the  war  of  pamphlets;  survived  the  funeral  of  the 
Republic  and  the  proscription  of  his  doctrines,  his  books  burned 
by  the  hangman,  himself  constrained  to  hide,  at  length  impris- 
oned, then  released;  living  in  expectancy  of  assassination,  losing 
three-fourths  of  his  fortune  by  confiscations,  bankruptcy,  and  the 
great  fire;  neither  loved  nor  respected  by  his  daughters,  who  had 
bitterly  complained  of  his  exactions,  and  the  second  of  whom  on 
being  told  that  he  was  to  be  married,  had  said  that  his  marriage 
would  be  no  news  — the  best  would  be  his  death;  seeking  solace, 
yet  a little,  in  meditation  and  in  poverty;  and,  after  so  many 
miseries,  expiring  in  1674,  calm  as  the  setting  sun,  tried  at  once 
by  pain,  danger,  poverty,  obloquy,  and  blindness, — prepared  by 
culture  for  a book  of  universal  knowledge,  and,  by  suffering,  for 
a Christian  epic. 

Writings. — During  a long,  sultry  midday  of  twenty  years  — 
1640  to  1660  — Milton  gave  himself  to  the  championship  of  ideas 
— ideas  that  were  to  emancipate  the  press  — ideas  that  plucked 
at  thrones  — ideas  that  were  to  raise  up  commonwealths.  At  the 
outset,  as  one  created  for  strife,  he  wrote  against  Episcopacy  with 
incomparable  eloquence  and  concentrated  rancor: 

‘All  mouths  began  to  be  opened  against  the  bishops.  ...  I saw  that  a way  was  open- 
ing for  the  establishment  of  real  liberty ; that  the  foundation  was  laying  for  the  deliver- 
ance of  man  from  the  yoke  of  slavery  and  superstition ; . . . and  as  I had  from  my  youth 
studied  the  distinction  between  religious  and  civil  rights,  ...  I determined  to  relinquish 
the  other  pursuits  in  which  I was  engaged,  and  to  transfer  the  whole  force  of  my  talents 
and  my  industry  to  this  one  important  object.' 1 

Then,  in  conjunction  with  others,  hurled  himself  upon  the  prince 
with  inexpiable  hatred  ; and,  when  bishops  and  king  had  been 
made  to  suffer  for  their  long  despotism,  justified  the  regicide: 


Second  Defence. 


474  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


‘For  what  king's  majesty  sitting  upon  an  exalted  throne,  ever  shone  so  brightly,  as 
that  of  the  people  of  England  then  did,  when,  shaking  off  that  old  superstition,  which 
had  prevailed  a long  time,  they  gave  judgment  upon  the  king  himself,  or  rather  upon  an 
enemy  who  had  been  their  king,  caught  as  it  were  in  a net  by  his  own  laws  (who  alone 
of  all  mortals  challenged  to  himself  impunity  by  a divine  right),  and  scrupled  not  to 
inflict  the  same  punishment  upon  him,  being  guilty,  which  he  would  have  inflicted  upon' 
any  other? 1 1 

With  like  energy,  armed  with  logic  aud  spurred  by  conviction, 
he  attacked  ail  prevailing  systems  of  education: 

‘Language  is  but  the  instrument  conveying  to  us  things  useful  to  be  known.  And 
though  a linguist  should  pride  himself  to  have  all  the  tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world 
into,  yet,  if  he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in  them,  as  well  as  the  words  and  lexi- 
cons, he  were  nothing  so  much  to  be  esteemed  a learned  man  as  any  yeoman  or  trades- 
man competently  wise  in  his  mother  dialect  only.  Hence  appear  the  many  mistakes 
which  have  made  learning  generally  so  unpleasing  and  so  unsuccessful:  first,  we  do 
amiss  to  spend  seven  or  eight  years  merely  in  scraping  together  so  much  miserable 
Latin  and  Greek  as  might  be  learned  otherwise  easily  and  delightfully  in  one  year.’ 2 

The  pupil  shall  not  begin  with  results,  but  reach  them  by 
experience.  He  is  not  expected  to  construct  a telescope — mo 
more  shall  he  be  required  to  construct  a poem  or  essay  without 
resources  either  of  reflection  or  of  knowledge.  The  seed  must 
be  sown,  and  the  soil  fertilized,  before  the  flower  and  the  fruit 
can  be  gathered: 

‘And  that  which  casts  our  proficiency  therein  so  much  behind,  is  our  time  lost  partly 
in  a preposterous  exaction,  forcing  the  empty  wits  of  children  to  compose  themes,  verses, 
and  orations,  which  are  the  acts  of  ripest  judgment,  and  the  final  work  of  a head  filled, 
by  long  reading  and  observing,  with  elegant  maxims  and  copious  invention.  These  are 
not  matters  to  be  wrung  from  poor  striplings,  like  blood  out  of  the  nose,  or  the  plucking 
of  untimely  fruit.’  3 

Having  demonstrated  what  we  should  not  do, — 

‘ I shall  detain  you  now  no  longer,  . . . but  straight  conduct  you  to  a hillside,  where 
I will  point  you  out  the  right  path  of  a virtuous  and  noble  education;  laborious,  indeed, 
at  the  first  ascent,  but  else  so  smooth,  so  green,  so  full  of  goodly  prospect  and  melodious 
sounds  on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus  was  not  more  charming.’ 4 

Above  the  roar  of  revolution,  his  voice  was  heard  thundering 
against  the  tyranny  of  tradition  and  custom.  In  sentences  that 
are  like  the  blasts  of  a trumpet  calling  men  to  freedom,  he  pro- 
tested against  the  oppression  of  printers  and  the  restriction  of 
printing;  and  as  one  who  foresees  the  future  and  reveals  the 
truth,  exulted  in  that  era  of  deliverance  when  every  man  should 
be  encouraged  to  think,  however  divergently,  and  to  bring  his 
thoughts  to  the  light: 

1 Defence. 

2 Tractate  of  Education.  We  commend  these  views  to  those  refiners  of  method  in 
education  who,  pavilioned  in  the  glittering  pride  of  our  superficial  accomplishments, 
seem  to  arrogate  all  excellence  to  the  present,  and  to  fancy  that  all  anterior  is  but  a dull 
and  useless  blank.  3 Ibid.  4 ibid. 


MILTON. 


475 


‘Methinks  I sec  in  my  mind  a noble  and  puissant  nation  rbusing  herself  like  a strong 
man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks:  methinks  I see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing 
her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam;  purging 
and  unsealing  her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  the  heavenly  radiance; 
while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  bipds,  with  those  also  that  love  the 
twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envious  gabble  would 
prognosticate  a year  of  sects  and  schisms.’ 1 

He  never  wearies  of  railing  at  the  pedantic  theologians,  who 
answer  an  argument  by  a citation  from  the  Fathers;  nor  of  mock- 
ing and  jeering  at  the  corpulent  prelates,  persecutors  of  free  dis- 
cussion, whose  gaudy  Church  is  a political  machine  to  uphold  the 
Crown : 

‘What  greater  debasement  can  there  be  to  royal  dignity,  whose  towering  and  stead- 
fast height  rests  upon  the  unmovable  foundations  of  justice,  and  heroic  virtue,  than  to 
chain  it  in  a dependence  of  subsisting,  or  ruining,  to  the  painted  battlements  and  gaudy 
rottenness,  of  prelatery,  which  want  but  one  puff  of  the  king’s  to  blow  them  down  like  a 
pasteboard  house  built  of  court  cards? 1 2 

It  is  the  power  of  superabundant  force  which  courses  in  athletic 
limbs.  Irony  is  too  refined  and  feeble.  Invectives  are  blows  that 
ease  ferocity,  and  knock  an  adversary  down; 

‘The  table  of  communion,  now  become  a table  of  separation,  stands  like  an  exalted 
platform  upon  the  brow  of  the  quire,  fortified  with  bulwark  and  barricado,  to  keep  off  the 
profane  touch  of  the  laics,  whilst  the  obscene  and  surfeited  priest  scruples  not  to  paw 
and  mammock  the  sacramental  bread  as  familiarly  as  his  tavern  biscuit.’ 3 

Then  with  a vengeful  fury  that  would  have  delighted  Calvin; 

‘They  shall  be  thrown  eternally  into  the  darkest  and  deepest  gulf  of  hell,  where, 
under  the  despiteful  control,  the  trample,  and  spurn  of  all  the  other  damned,  that  in  the 
anguish  of  their  torture  shall  have  no  other  eafce  than  to  exercise  a raving  and  bestial 
tyranny  over  them  as  their  slaves  and  negroes,  they  shall  remain  in  that  plight  forever 
the  basest,  the  lowermost,  the  most  dejected,  most  underfoot,  and  down-trodden  vassals 
of  perdition.’4 

Enthusiasm  may  break  out  in  a moment  into  a resplendent 
hymn.  His  reasoning  always  ends  with  a poem  — a song  of 
triumph  whose  richness  and  exaltation,  as  in  the  following,  carry 
the  splendor  of  the  Renaissance  into  the  earnestness  of  the  Ref- 
ormation: 

‘O  Thou  the  ever-begotten  Light  and  perfect  Image  of  the  Father,  . . . Who  is  there 
that  cannot  trace  thee  now  in  thy  beamy  walk  through  the  midst  of  thy  sanctuary, 
amidst  those  golden  candlesticks,  which  have  long  suffered  a dimness  amongst  us 
through  the  violence  of  those  that  had  seized  them,  and  were  more  taken  with  the  men- 
tion of  their  gold  than  of  their  starry  light?  . . . Come  therefore,  O thou  that  hast  the 
seven  stars  in  thy  right  hand,  appoint  thy  chosen  priests  according  to  their  orders  and 
courses  of  old,  to  minister  before  thee,  and  duly  to  press  and  pour  out  the  consecrated 
oil  into  thy  holy  and  ever-burning  lamps.  Thou  hast  sent  out  the  spirit  of  prayer  upon 
thy  servants  over  all  the  land  to  this  effect,  and  stirred  up  their  vows  as  the  sound  of 
many  waters  about  thy  throne.  . . . O perfect  and  accomplish  thy  glorious  acts!  . . . 


1 Areopagitica. 


2 Of  Reformation  in  England. 


3 Ibid. 


4 Ibid. 


476  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


Come  forth  out  of  thy  royal  chambers,  O Prince  of  all  the  kings  of  the  earth ! put  on  the 
visible  robes  of  thy  imperial  majesty,  take  up  that  unlimited  sceptre  which  thy  Almighty 
Father  hath  bequeathed  thee;  for  now  the  voice  of  thy  bride  calls  thee,  and  all  creatures 
sigh  to  be  renewed.’ 1 

Do  not  take  these  for  the  whole,  which  is  ponderous  and  dull, 
heavy  with  scholasticism,  and  marred  by  the  grossness  of  the 
times.  They  are  but  fine  isolated  morsels  which  show  the  all- 
powerful  passion,  the  majestic  imagination  of  the  man,  whose 
dominant  need  and  faculty  lead  him  to  noble  conceptions,  and 
have  preordained  him  a poet.  In  childhood  he  had  written 
verses;  and  at  Cambridge  his  poetic  genius  opened  in  the 
Hymn  on  the  Nativity , any  stanza  of  which  was  sufficient  to 
show  that  a new  and  great  light  was  rising: 

°It  was  the  winter  wild, 

While  the  heaven-born  child 

All  meanly  wrapped  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 

Nature,  in  awe,  to  him 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathise: 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour.’ 

Also: 

‘No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 

Was  heard  the  world  around: 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng: 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by.’ 

Or  again: 

‘But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly  the  waters  kissed. 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 

Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave.’ 

At  Horton,  ere  yet  his  eye  was  dimmed,  while  the  soul  was 
fresh,  and  responsive  to  the  sweet  scenes  of  rural  life,  he  wrote 
the  happiest  and  richest  of  his  productions.  The  heart  of  the 
scholar,  transported  from  the  pale  cloister  to  the  flowery  mead, 
is  open  to  the  careless  beauty  and  laughing  plenty  around  him; 

1 Animadversions  on  the  Remonstrants'  Defence. 


MILTON. 


477 


and  the  sensuous  imagination  bodies  forth  its  serene  content  in 
a succession  of  images  unsurpassed  for  their  charm: 


‘Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee. 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods  and  Becks  and  wreathed  Smiles , 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek , 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come  and  trip  it , as  yon  go , 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And,  if  I give  thee  honor  due. 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

This  is  the  mirthful  aspect 
of  the  hawthorn  hedge.  But 


And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies , 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow , 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow , 
Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine. 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin , 

And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn-door 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before:  . . . 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land , 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe , 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale. 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale.’ 1 

of  Nature,  with  the  fadeless  scent 


the  pensive  is  nobler.  Milton  pre- 


fers it,  and  summons  Melancholy: 


‘Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  stedfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  6able  stole  of  Cypress  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step  and  musing  gait 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies , 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes."1 


With  her  he  wanders  among  the  primeval  trees, — 

‘ Where  the  rude  axe , with  heaved  stroke. 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt.' 

Or  in  the  retirement  of  study, — 

‘ Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a gloom; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth. 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth.' 


Or  under  the  ‘high  embowered  roof,’  amid  antique  pillars, — 


'•And  storied  windows  richly  diglit , 

Casting  a dim  religious  light.' 

While  the  growth  of  Puritan  sentiment  was  chilling  the  taste 
for  such  entertainment,  Milton,  conceiving  sublimity,  on  an  altar 
1 V Allegro. 


2 II  Penseroso. 


478  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


of  flowers,  composed  the  C omits / a masque  — a lyric  poem  in  the 
form  of  a play,  an  amusement  for  the  palace;  with  others,  an 
exhibition  of  costumes  and  fairy  tales;  with  him,  a divine  eulogy 
of  innocence  and  purity.  A noble  lady,  separated  from  her  two 
brothers,  strays  — 

‘Through  the  perplexed  paths  of  this  drear  wood, 

The  nodding  horrour  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger.’ 

There  Comus,  son  of  an  enchantress,  amid  the  clamors  of  men 
transformed  into  beasts,  holds  his  wild  revels: 

‘Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold; 

And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream; 

And  the  slope  Sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole; 

Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  East. 

Meanwhile,  welcome  joy,  and  feast. 

Midnight  shout,  and  revelry, 

Tipsy  dance,  and  jollity, 

Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 

Dropping  odours,  dropping  wine.  . . . 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground, 

In  a light  fantastic  round.’ 

She  is  troubled  by  the  turbulent  joy  which  she  hears  afar  in  the 
darkness.  A thousand  fantasies  startle  her,  but  her  strength  is 
in  the  heavenly  guardians  who  watch  over  the  good: 

‘O  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith,  w'hite-handed  Hope, 

Thou  hov’ring  angel  girt  with  golden  wings, 

And  thou,  unblemish'd  form  of  Chastity! 

I see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  He,  the  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 

Would  send  a glist'ring  guardian,  if  need  were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honour  unassail’d.’ 

She  calls  her  brothers,  in  strains  that  steal  upon  the  air  like  rich 
distilled  perfumes,  and  reach  the  dissolute  god,  who  approaches, 
changed  by  a magic  dust  into  a gentle  shepherd: 

‘Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth’s  mould 
Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravishment? 

Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 

And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 

How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence  through  the  empty-vaulted  night, 

At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  Darkness  till  it  smiled!  I have  oft  heard 


MILTON. 


479 


My  mother  Circe  with  the  Syrens  three, 

Amidst  the  flowery- kirtled  Naiades, 

'Culling  their  potent  herbs,  and  baleful  drugs; 

Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison’d  soul 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium;  Scylla  wept, 

And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention, 

And  fell  Charybdis  murmur’d  soft  applause: 

Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull’d  the  sense, 

And  in  sweet  madness  robb’d  it  of  itself; 

But  such  a sacred,  and  home-felt  delight, 

Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss 
I never  heard  till  now.  I’ll  speak  to  her, 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen.’ 

Under  pretence  of  leading  her  out  of  the  forest,  he  beguiles  her 
to  his  palace,  and  seats  her,  with  ‘nerves  all  chained  up,’  before 
a sumptuous  table.  She  scorns  his  offer,  and  confounds  the 
tempter  by  the  energy  of  her  indignation.  Suddenly  her  broth- 
ers enter,  led  by  the  attendant  Spirit;  cast  themselves  upon  him 
with  drawn  swords,  and  he  flees.  To  deliver  their  enchanted 
sister,  they  invoke  a river  nymph,  who  sits  — 

‘Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave. 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 

The  loose  train  of  her  amber-dropping  hair.’ 

Sprinkled  by  the  naiad,  the  lady  leaves  the  ‘venomed  seat,’ 
which  held  her  spell-bound.  Joy  reigns.  What  stronger  breast- 
plate than  a heart  untainted  ? Therefore, — 

‘Love  Virtue;  she  alone  is  free. 

She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime; 

Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 

Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her.’ 

To  the  protracted  storm  succeeded  a sombre,  reactionary  even- 
ing; and  when  the  blind  old  warrior  turned  again  to  the  dreams 
of  his  youth,  lightness  and  grace  were  gone.  Theology,  disap- 
pointment, and  conflict  had  subdued  the  lyric  flight,  and  fitted 
him  for  a metaphysical  theme  — exploits  of  the  Deity,  battles  of 
the  supernatural,  the  history  of  salvation.  It  had  been  among 
his  early  hopes  to  construct  something  which  the  world  would 
not  willingly  let  die.  Before  entering  upon  his  travels,  he  had 
written  to  a friend:  ‘I  am  meditating,  by  the  help  of  heaven, 
an  immortality  of  fame,  but  my  Pegasus  has  not  yet  feathers 
enough  to  soar  aloft  in  the  fields  of  air’;  and  after  his  return,  he 
said  to  another:  ‘Some  day  I shall  address  a work  to  posterity 
which  will  perpetuate  my  name,  at  least  in  the  land  in  which  I 


480  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


was  born.’  In  old  age,  his  choice  had  settled  upon  Paradise  Lost , 
whose  composition  occupied  from  1658  to  1665,  though  the  vast 
design  had  long  been  shaping  itself.  It  opens  with  an  invocation 
to  the  Muse  to  sing  — 

‘Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe. 

With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat.' 

And  a petition  to  the  Spirit  for  inspiration: 

‘What  in  me  is  dark, 

Illumine;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support; 

That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I may  assert  eternal  Providence , 

And  justify  the  trays  of  God  to  men.' 

Out  of  ‘solid  and  liquid  fire’  is  framed  a world  of  horror  and  suf- 
fering, vast  and  vague: 

‘A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round, 

As  one  great  furnace  flamed;  yet  from  those  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 

Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades.1 

There  wallows  the  colossal  Satan,  with  the  rebel  angels,  hurled 
from  the  ethereal  heights  into  that  livid  lake: 

‘With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed,  his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large. 

Lay  floating  many  a rood.1 

But  ‘by  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven,’ — 

‘Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the  pool 
His  mighty  stature;  on  each  hand  the  flames, 

Driv'n  backward,  slope  their  pointing  spires,  and,  roll’d 
In  billows,  leave  i'  th1  midst  a horrid  vale.1 

Fiercer  than  the  flames  is  the  defiant  spirit  they  enwrap  — the 
proud  but  ruined  seraph,  who,  preferring  independence  to  ser- 
vility, welcomes  defeat  and  torment  as  a glory  and  a joy: 

‘Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime. 

Said  then  the  lost  Arch-Angel,  this  the  seat 

That  we  must  change  for  heav’n,  this  mournful  gloom 

For  that  celestial  light?  Be  it  so,  since  he 

Who  now  is  Sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 

What  shall  be  right:  farthest  from  him  is  best, 

Whom  reason  hath  equall’d,  force  hath  made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.  Farewell  happy  fields, 

Where  joy  forever  dwells!  Hail  horrors,  hail 
Infernal  world ! and  thou  profoundest  Hell 


MILTON. 


481 


Receive  thy  new  possessor;  one  who  brings 
A mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 

The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a Heav'n  of  Hell,  a Ilell  of  Heav'n. 

What  matter  where,  if  I be  still  the  same. 

And  what  I should  be,  all  but  less  than  He 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?  Here  at  least 
We  shall  be  free;  th’  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  His  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence: 

Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell ; 

Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven.’ 

He  gathers  his  crew,  who  lay  entranced  thick  as  autumnal  leaves, 
and  addresses  them: 

‘He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent. 

Stood  like  a tower.  . . . His  face 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrench'd,  and  care 

Sat  on  his  faded  cheek;  but  under  brows 

Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride 

Waiting  revenge.  . . . Attention  held  them  mute. 

Thrice  he  essay’d,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn. 

Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth.’ 

At  last  his  words  find  utterance,  and  he  comforts  them  with  the 
hope  of  universal  empire.  A council  of  peers  is  held  in  Pande- 
monium,— 

‘A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats 1 ; 

And  their  dauntless  king, — 

‘ High  on  a throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind, 

Or  where  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest  hand 
Show’rs  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold.’ 

It  is  resolved  to  go  in  search  of  a new  kingdom  and  a new  crea- 
ture, of  which  there  had  been  an  ancient  prophecy  or  report,  and 
to  inflict  upon  them  infinite  misery  in  compensation  for  the  loss 
of  infinite  bliss.  But, — 

‘Whom  shall  we  find 

Sufficient?  who  shall  ’tempt  with  wand’ring  feet 
The  dark  unbottom’d  infinite  abyss, 

And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight, 

Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle?’ 

Each  reads  in  the  other’s  countenance  his  own  dismay.  The 
awful  suspense  is  only  broken  by  their  matchless  chief,  who 
31 


482  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


offers  himself  for  the  general  safety,  and  undertakes  the  voyage 
alone,  though  — 

‘Long  is  the  way 

Anil  hard  that  out  of  Hell  leads  up  to  light; 

Our  prison  strong;  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 

Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold,  and  gates  of  burning  adamant 
Barr'd  over  us  prohibit  all  egress,’ 

Then  the  plunge  ‘into  the  void  profound  of  unessential  Night/ 
Arrived  at  Hell-bounds,  mark  the  horror  and  grandeur  of  the 
situation; 

‘Thrice  threefold  the  gates;  three  folds  were  brass, 

Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock, 

Impenetrable,  impaled  with  circling  fire, 

Yet  unconsumed.  Before  the  gates  there  sat 
On  either  side  a formidable  shape; 

The  one  seemed  woman  to  the  waist,  and  fair, 

But  ended  foul  in  many  a scaly  laid, 

Voluminous  and  vast,  a serpent  arm’d 
With  mortal  sting:  about  her  middle  round 
A cry  of  Hell-hounds  never  ceasing,  bark’d 
With  wide  Cerberean  mouths  full  loud,  and  rung 
A hideous  peal:  yet,  when  they  list,  would  creep, 

If  aught  disturb’d  their  noise,  into  her  womb, 

And  kennel  there,  yet  there  still  bark'd  and  howl’d 
Within  unseen.  . . . The  other  shape, 

If  shape  it  might  be  call’d  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb. 

Or  substance  might  be  call’ll  that  shadow  seemed, 

For  each  seem'd  either;  black  it  stood  as  Night, 

Fierce  as  ten  Furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 

And  shook  a dreadful  dart.  What  seem’d  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a kingly  crown  had  on. 

Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat, 

The  monster  moving  onward,  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides,  Hell  trembled  as  he  strode, 

Th’  undaunted  Fiend  what  this  might  be  admired  — 

Admired,  not  feared.’ 

Satan,  unterrified,  and  burning  like  a comet,  advances.  But  the 
snaky  sorceress,  rushing  between  the  combatants,  takes  from  her 
side  the  fatal  key,  and  unlocks  the  gates,  whose  1 furnace-mouth ’ 
would  admit  ‘a  bannered  host  with  extended  wings.’  On  the 
frontiers  of  Chaos,  the  flying  Fiend  weighs  his  spread  wings,  and 
descries  — 

‘This  pendent  world,  in  bigness  as  a star 
Of  smallest  magnitude  close  by  the  moon.’ 

In  prospect  of  Eden,  he  falls  into  painful  doubts: 

‘Me  miserable!  which  way  shall  I fly 
Infinite  wrath,  and  infinite  despair? 

Which  way  I fly  is  Hell;  myself  am  Hell, 


MILTON. 


483 


And  in  the  lowest  deep  a lower  deep 
Still  threat’ning  to  devour  me  opens  wide, 

To  which  the  Hell  I suffer  seems  a Heav’n.’ 

There  is  no  repentance,  no  pardon,  but  by  submission;  and  that, 
disdain  forbids: 

‘So  farewell  hope,  and  with  hope  farewell  fear, 

Farewell  remorse:  all  good  to  me  is  lost: 

Evil  be  thou  my  good;  by  thee  at  least 
Divided  empire  with  Heav’n's  King  I hold.’ 

He  reaches  the  wall,  overleaps  it,  sees  Adam  and  Eve,  hears  them 
converse  as  they  repose  on  the  velvet  green,  amid  sporting  kids 
and  ramping  lions  under  trees  of  ambrosial  fruitage: 

‘Sight  hateful!  sight  tormenting!  thus  these  two, 

Imparadised  in  one  another's  arms. 

The  happier  Eden,  shall  enjoy  their  fill 
Of  bliss  on  bliss;  while  I to  Hell  am  thrust, 

Where  neither  joy  nor  love,  but  fierce  desire, 

Among  our  other  torments  not  the  least, 

Still  unfulfill’d  with  pain  of  longing,  pines. 

Yet  let  me  not  forget  what  I have  gained 

From  their  own  mouths;  all  is  not  theirs,  it  seems; 

One  fatal  tree  there  stands,  of  Knowledge  call’d. 

Forbidden  them  to  taste:  Knowledge  forbidden?’ 

He  is  arrested,  by  a night-watch,  while  tempting  Eve  in  a dream, 
and  brought  into  the  presence  of  Gabriel,  but  escapes;  returns, 
however,  in  a rising  mist  at  midnight: 

‘Cautious  of  day, 

Since  Uriel,  regent  of  the  sun,  descry’d 
His  entrance,  and  forewarn’d  the  Cherubim 
That  kept  their  watch.’ 

Entering  into  the  form  of  a serpent,  he  spies  Eve  apart,  veiled  in 
a cloud  of  fragrance: 

‘So  thick  the  roses  blushing  round 
About  her  glow’d,  oft  stooping  to  support 
Each  flow’r  of  slender  stalk,  whose  head,  though  gay 
Carnation,  purple,  azure,  or  speck’d  with  gold, 

Hung  drooping  unsustained.’ 

He  knows  she  is  a woman,  and  therefore  must  first  use  all  his  arfs 
to  lure  the  eye,  approaching, — 

‘Not  with  indented  wave, 

Prone  on  the  ground,  as  since,  but  on  his  rear, 

Circular  base  of  rising  folds,  that  tower’d 
Fold  above  fold  a surging  maze,  his  head 
Crested  aloft,  and  carbuncle  his  eyes; 

With  burnish’d  neck  of  verdant  gold,  erect 
Amidst  his  circling  spires,  that  on  the  grass 
Floated  redundant.’ 


484  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


She  hears  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves,  but  heeds  not,  because  she 
is  used  to  it.  Bolder  now,  he  presents  himself: 

‘But  as  in  gaze  admiring,  oft  he  bow'd 
His  turret  crest  and  sleek  enamel'd  neck, 

Fawning,  and  lick'd  the  ground  whereon  she  trod, 

His  gentle  dumb  expression  turn’d  at  length 
The  eye  of  Eve  to  mark  his  play.’ 

Having  her  attention,  the  next  point  is  to  excite  the  ruling 
passion  — curiosity,  which  he  does  by  the  most  delicate  of  com- 
pliments. Amazed  to  hear  a brute  articulate,  she  wants  to  know 
what  it  can  mean,  and  he  explains: 

‘Empress  of  this  fair  world,  resplendent  Eve, 

Easy  to  me  it  is  to  tell  thee  all 

What  thou  command’st;  and  right  thou  should’ st  be  obey’d. 

I was  at  first  as  other  beasts  that  graze 
The  trodden  herb,  of  abject  thoughts  and  low. 

As  was  my  food:  nor  aught  but  food  discern’d, 

Or  sex,  and  apprehended  nothing  high; 

Till  on  a day  roving  the  field,  I chanced 
A goodly  tree  far  distant  to  behold, 

Loaden  with  fruit  of  fairest  colours  mix’d, 

Ruddy  and  gold.  ...  To  pluck  and  eat  my  fill 
I spared  not;  for  such  pleasure  till  that  hour 
At  feed  or  fountain  never  had  I found.’ 

With  many  wiles  and  arguments  he  overcomes  her  scruples,  and 
induces  her  to  eat.  She  says: 

‘In  the  day  we  eat 

Of  this  fair  fruit,  our  doom  is,  we  shall  die. 

How  dies  the  serpent?  he  hath  eaten  and  lives, 

And  knows,  and  speaks,  and  reasons,  and  discerns, 

Irrational  till  then.’ 

True  and  conclusive: 

‘So  saying,  her  rash  hand,  in  evil  hour, 

Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  she  plucked,  she  eatl 
Earth  felt  the  wound;  and  Nature  from  her  seat 
Sighing,  through  all  her  works  gave  signs  of  woe. 

That  all  was  lost.1 

Satan,  triumphant,  arrives  at  Pandemonium,  and  exultingly  re- 
lates his  success.  He  awaits  their  shout  of  applause,  but  hears 
instead,  on  all  sides,  only  a dismal  hiss: 

‘ He  wondered,  but  not  long 
Had  leisure,  wond’ring  at  himself  now  more: 

His  visage  drawn  he  felt  to  sharp  and  spare, 

His  arms  clung  to  his  ribs,  his  legs  intwining 
Each  other,  till  supplanted  down  he  fell 
A monstrous  serpent  on  his  belly  prone. 

Reluctant,  but  in  vain;  a greater  Pow'r 


MILTON. 


485 


Now  ruled  him,  punish'd  in  the  shape  he  sinn’d 
According  to  his  doom.  He  would  have  spoke, 

But  hiss  for  hiss  return'd  with  forked  tongue 
To  forked  tongue.’ 

Solaced  by  the  promise  of  redemption,  the  fallen  pair  are  led 
forth  from  Paradise,  casting  back  one  fond  lingering  look  upon 
their  happy  seat, — 

‘Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand,  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  throng’d  and  fiery  arms. 

Some  natural  tears  they  dropt,  but  wiped  them  soon.’ 

Style. — The  difficulties  of  his  prose  — the  heaviness  of  its 
logic,  the  clumsiness  of  its  discussions,  the  involution  of  its  sen- 
tences— have  almost  sealed  it  to  common  readers;  but  if  it  lacks 
simplicity  and  perspicuity,  it  has  what  is  nobler  — breadth  of 
eloquence,  wealth  of  imagery,  sublimity  of  diction. 

His  poetical  manner,  with  more  of  richness  and  inversion,  is 
essentially  the  same  — ample,  measured,  and  organ-like;  not  im- 
pulsive and  abrupt,  but  solid  and  regular,  as  of  one  who  writes 
from  a superb  self-command.  All  languages,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, contributed  something  of  splendor,  of  energy,  of  music;  but 
no  exotic  is  so  largely  and  conspicuously  helpful  as  the  stately 
Latin,  as  none  is  so  valuable  for  the  purposes  of  harmony.  Many 
of  his  grandest  lines  consist  chiefly  of  this  element,  as, — 

‘ The  palpable  obscure .' 

‘ Ruin  upon  ruin , rout  on  rout , 

Confusion  worse  confounded.'' 

‘Deep  on  his  front  engraven 
Deliberation  sat,  and  public  care.' 

'■Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds' 

‘ Thrones , dominations , princedoms , virtues , powers' 

His  fondness  for  Latinisms  is  perceptible  in  every  such  arrange- 
ment as  — 

'Him  the  Almighty  power 

Hurled  headlong,  flaming  down  the  ethereal  heights,’ 
and  in  that  strictly  periodic  structure,  of  which  finer  examples 
can  nowhere  be  found  than  those  already  given.  A few  of  his 
epithets,  taken  at  random,  will  suggest  his  ruling  characteristics, 
— ‘ hideous  ruin  and  combustion’;  ‘wasteful  deep’;  ‘gentle  gales, 
fanning  their  odoriferous  wings’;  ‘gay-enamelled  colors’;  ‘pon- 
derous shield,  ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round.’ 

His  rhythm  beats  with  no  intermittent  pulse.  He  is  unerr- 


486  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENT  ATI  YE  AUTHORS. 


ingly  harmonious.  To  specify  but  two  or  three  of  the  modes 
by  which  from  the  iambic  blank  he  obtains  the  most  felicitous 
effects: 

1.  By  the  interchange  of  feet , — 

Trochee '■High  on  a throne  of  royal  state.’ 

Anapaest ‘Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream.’ 

Spondee ‘ The  force  of  those  dire  arms." 

2.  By  a perpetual  change  of  the  ccesural  p>ause , — 

‘At  once,  as  far  as  angel’s  ken  he  views 
The  dismal  situation,  waste  and  wild; 

A dungeon  horrible,  on  all  sides  round, 

As  one  great  furnace  flamed,  yet  from  those  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible, 

Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 

Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where  peace 
And  rest  can  never  dwell,  hope  never  comes 
That  comes  to  all,  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,  and  a fiery  deluge  fed 
With  ever- burning  sulphur  unconsumed.’ 

3.  By  an  unequalled  skill  in  the  management  of  sound. 
How  expressive  of  harshness, — 

‘On  a sudden  open  fly, 

With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 

The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder.’ 

How  expressive  of  peace, — 

‘Heaven  opened  wide 
Her  ever- during  gates,  harmonious  sound. 

On  golden  hinges  turning.’ 

Or  of  the  uproar  of  contending  hosts,— 

‘Arms  on  armor  clashing  bray’d 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  chariots  raged.’ 

Or  of  the  virgin  charms  of  Eden, — 

‘Airs,  vernal  airs, 

Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove,  attune 
The  trembling  leaves,  while  universal  Pan, 

Knit  with  the  graces  and  the  hours  in  dance, 

Led  on  the  eternal  spring.’ 

His  natural  movement  is  majestic,  as  of  a full  deep  stream; 
but  not,  as  we  have  seen,  without  its  phases.  In  his  master- 
pieces, we  may  see,  in  the  order  of  their  execution,  what  might 
be  expected  a priori , — the  intellectual  gaining  upon  the  sensual 
qualities  of  art:  the  youthful  freshness  of  Comus , passages  of 


MILTON. 


487 


which  might  have  been  written  by  Fletcher  or  Shakespeare;  the 
grave  full-toned  harmonies  of  Paradise  Lost / the  rugged  eccen- 
tricities and  harsh  inversions  of  Paradise  Regained ; and  the 
cold,  uncompromising  severity  of  Samson  Agonistes. 

Rank. — As  a poet,  he  was  little  regarded  by  his  contempora- 
ries. ‘The  old  blind  poet,’  says  Waller,  ‘hath  published  a tedious 
poem  on  the  Fall  of  Man.  If  its  length  be  not  considered  as  a 
merit,  it  hath  no  other.’  To  be  neglected  by  them  was  the  pen- 
alty paid  for  surpassing  them.  The  fame  of  a great  man  needs 
time  to  give  it  due  perspective.  He  was  esteemed  and  feared, 
however,  as  a learned  and  powerful  disputant.  His  prose  writ- 
ings, in  his  own  day,  seem  to  have  been  read  with  avidity;  but 
the  interests  which  inspired  them  were  accidental,  while  in  argu- 
ment they  have  the  rambling  course  of  indignation,  and  their 
cloth  of  gold  is  disfigured  with  the  mud  of  invective. 

The  poet  of  revealed  religion  under  its  Puritanic  type.  Para- 
dise Lost  is  the  epic  of  a fallen  cause,  the  embodiment  of 
Puritan  England  — its  grand  ambitions,  its  colossal  energies, 
its  strenuous  struggles,  its  broken  hope,  its  proud  and  sombre 
horizon.  It  has  the  distinguishing  merit  and  signal  defect  of  the 
Puritan  temper, — the  equable  realization  of  a great  purpose,  and 
the  painful  want  of  a large,  genial  humanity. 

The  last  of  the  Elizabethans;  holding  his  place  on  the  borders 
of  the  Renaissance,  which  was  setting,  and  of  the  Doctrinal  Age, 
w'hich  was  rising;  between  the  epoch  of  natural  belief,  of  un- 
biased fancy,  and  the  epoch  of  severe  religion,  of  narrow  opin- 
ions; displaying,  under  limitations,  the  old  creativeness  in  new 
subjects;  concentrating  the  literary  past  and  future;  and  when 
his  proper  era  had  passed  by,  looming  in  solitary  greatness  at  a 
moment  when  imagination  was  extinct  and  taste  was  depraved. 

By  the  purity  of  his  sentiments  and  the  sustained  fulness  of 
his  style,  he  holds  affinity  with  Spenser,  who  calmly  dreams;  by 
his  theme  and  majesty,  with  Dante,  who  is  fervid  and  rapt;  by 
his  profundity  and  learning,  with  Bacon,  who  is  more  comprehen- 
sive; by  his  inspiration,  with  Shakespeare,  who  is  freer  and  more 
varied:  but  in  sublimity  he  excels  them  all,  even  Homer.  The 
first  two  books  of  Paradise  Lost  are  continued  instances  of  the 
sublime. 

Its  height  is  what  distinguishes  the  entire  poem  from  every 


488  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


other.  Its  central  figure,  the  ruined  arch-angel,  is  the  most 
tremendous  conception  in  the  compass  of  poetry;  no  longer  the 
petty  mischief-maker,  the  horned  enchanter,  of  the  middle-age, 
but  a giant  and  a hero,  whose  eyes  are  like  eclipsed  suns,  whose 
cheeks  are  thunder-scarred,  whose  wings  are  as  two  black  forests; 
armed  with  a shield  whose  circumference  is  the  orb  of  the  moon, 
with  a spear  in  comparison  with  which  the  tallest  pine  were  but  a 
wand;  doubly  armed  by  pride,  fury,  and  despair;  brave  and  faith- 
ful to  his  troops,  touched  with  pity  for  his  innocent  victims, 
pleading  necessity  for  his  design,  actuated  less  by  pure  malice 
than  by  ambition  and  resentment. 

Burns  resolved  to  buy  a pocket-copy  of  Milton,  and  study  that 
noble  (?)  character,  Satan;  not  that  his  interest  fastened  upon  the 
evil,  but  upon  the  miraculous  manifestation  of  energy, — the  vehe- 
ment will,  the  spiritual  might,  which  could  overpower  racking 
pains,  and,  in  the  midst  of  desolation,  cry: 

‘ Hail,  horrors ! hail 
Infernal  world!  and  thon,  profoundest  hell, 

Receive  thy  new  possessor!’ 

But  stoical  self-repression  limits  the  imagination.  If  he  was 
the  loftiest  of  great  poets,  none  ever  had  less  of  that  dramatic 
sensibility  which  creates  and  differentiates  souls,  endowing  each 
with  its  appropriate  act  and  word.  He  can  neither  forget  nor 
conceal  himself.  The  most  affecting  passages  in  his  great  epic 
are  personal  allusions,  as  when  he  reverts  to  the  scenes  which 
exist  no  longer  to  him: 

‘Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  ev'n  or  morn. 

Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer’s  rose. 

Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me.' 

His  individuality  is  always  present.  Adam  and  Eve  are  often 
difficult  to  be  separated.  They  pay  each  other  philosophical 
compliments,  and  converse  in  dissertations.  She  is  too  serious. 
If  you  are  mortal,  you  will  sooner  love  the  laughing  Rosalind, 
with  her  bird-like  petulance  and  volubility: 

‘O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou  didst  know  how  many  fathoms  deep  I 
am  in  love.’ 1 

‘Why,  how  now,  Orlando,  where  have  you  been  all  this  while?  You  a lover?’ 3 


Ms  You  Like  If. 


* Ibid. 


MILTON. 


489 


Or  to  one  who  has  seen  her  lover  in  this  autumn  glade: 

‘What  said  he?  how  looked  he?  Wherein  went  he?  Did  he  ask  for  me?  Where 
remains  he?  How  parted  he  with  thee?  and  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again?  . . . Do  you 
not  know  that  I am  a woman?  When  I think,  I must  speak.  Sweet,  say  on.*1 

Eve  is  Milton’s  ideal.  With  her  he  would  have  been  happy. 
There  would  have  been  no  friction.  He  would  administer  the 
scientific  draughts  required,  and  she  would  reply  becomingly, 
gratefully,  as  he  wished: 

‘My  . . . Disposer,  what  thou  bidst, 

Unargued,  I obey;  so  God  ordains; 

God  is  thy  law,  thou  mine;  to  know  no  more 
Is  woman’s  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise. 

With  thee  conversing  I forget  all  time; 

All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike.’ 

As  for  Adam,  no  mortal  woman  could  love  him,  however  she 
might  admire  him, — least  of  all  Mary  Powel. 

Milton  could  not  divorce  himself  from  dialectics.  His  Jeho- 
vah is  too  much  of  an  advocate.  He  expounds  and  enforces 
theology  like  an  Oxford  divine.  The  highest  art  is  only  in- 
directly didactic.  The  most  exquisite  can  produce  no  illusion 
when  it  is  employed  to  represent  the  transcendent  and  absolute. 
Spiritual  agents  cannot  be  poetically  expressed  with  metaphysical 
accuracy.  They  must  be  clothed  in  material  forms, — -must  have 
a sphere  and  mode  of  agency  not  wholly  superhuman.2 

Character. — He  was  born  for  great  ideas  and  great  service. 
At  ten  he  had  a learned  tutor,  and  at  twelve  he  worked  until 
midnight.  It  is  Milton's  childhood  that  is  described  in  Paradise 
Regained , where  Christ  is  made  to  say: 

‘While  I was  yet  a child,  no  childish  play 
To  me  was  pleasing;  all  my  mind  was  set 
Serious  to  learn  and  know,  and  thence  to  do, 

What  might  be  public  good;  myself  I thought 
Born  to  that  end,  born  to  promote  all  truth, 

All  righteous  things.’ 

No  man  ever  conceived  a loftier  ideal,  or  a firmer  resolve  to  un- 
fold it.  Amid  the  licentious  gallantries  of  the  South  he  per- 
fected himself  by  study,  without  soiling  himself  by  contagion: 

1 As  You  Like  It. 

2 M.  Taine  demands  of  the  poet  what  is  altogether  impossible, — that  God  and  Mes- 
siah should  act  and  feel  in  conformity  with  their  essential  natures.  To  reconcile  the 
spiritual  properties  of  supernatural  beings  with  the  human  modes  of  existence  which  it  is 
necessary  to  ascribe  to  them,  is  a difficulty  too  great  for  the  human  mind  to  overcome. 
The  infinite  cannot  be  made  to  enter  finite  limits  without  jar  and  collision.  It  may  be 
justly  insisted,  of  course,  that  the  Deity  shall  not  be  bound  to  a precise  formula. 


490  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


‘ I call  the  Deity  to  witness  that  in  all  those  places  in  which  vice  meets  with  so  little 
discouragement,  and  is  practised  with  so  little  shame,  I never  once  deviated  from  the 
paths  of  integrity  and  virtue,  and  perpetually  reflected  that,  though  my  conduct  might 
escape  the  notice  of  men,  it  could  not  elude  the  inspection  of  God.’ 

The  idea  of  a purer  existence  than  any  he  saw  around  him,  regu- 
lated all  his  toil: 

‘ He  who  would  aspire  to  write  well  in  laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a true 
poem;  . . . not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men  or  famous  cities  unless  he 
have  in  himself  the  experience  and  the  practice  of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy.1 


Not  art,  but  life,  was  the  end  of  his  effort, — to  identify  himself 
and  others  with  all  select  and  holy  images.  Comus  is  but  a 
hymn  to  chastity.  Two  noble  passages  attest  the  conviction 
which  fired  him,  the  purpose  which  no  temptation  could  shake, 
and  which  gives  such  authority  to  his  strain: 


And: 


‘Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  Virtue  would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and  moon 
Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.1 


‘This  I hold  firm;— 

Virtue  may  be  assail’d,  but  never  hurt,— 

Surpris’d  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthrall’d; 

Yea,  even  that,  which  mischief  meant  most  harm, 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory; 

But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil, 

And  mix  no  more  with  goodness:  when  at  last 
Gather'd  like  scum , and  settled  to  itself , 

It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change , 

Self -fed,  and  self -consumed;  if  this  fail. 

The  pillar'd  firmament  is  rottenness. 

And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble.' 


The  mind  thus  consecrated  to  moral  beauty,  is  stamped  with  the 
superscription  of  the  Most  High.  Like  the  Puritans,  his  eye 
was  fixed  continually  on  an  Almighty  Judge.  This  was  the  light 
that  irradiated  his  darkness,  and,  early  and  late,  on  all  sides 
round, — 

‘As  one  great  furnace  flamed.1 


This  was  the  idea,  strengthened  by  vast  knowledge  and  solitary 
meditation,  that  absorbed  all  the  rest  of  his  being,  and  made 
him  the  sublimest  of  men.  Hence  the  poems  that  rise  like  tem- 
ples, and  the  rhythms  that  flow  like  organ  chants.  Hence  the 
contempt  of  external  circumstances,  the  purpose  that  will  not 
bend  to  opposition  nor  yield  to  seduction,  the  courage  to  per- 
form a perilous  duty  and  to  combat  for  what  is  true  or  sacred. 
Hence  the  calm,  conscious  energy  which  no  subject,  howsoever 


MILTON. 


491 


vast  or  terrific,  can  repel  or  intimidate,  which  no  emotion  or 
accident  can  transform  or  disturb,  which  no  suffering*  can  render 
sullen  or  fretful.  Hence  the  larger  conception  of  perpetual 
growth,  the  consequent  reverence  for  human  nature,  hatred  of 
the  institutions  which  fetter  the  mind,  devotion  to  freedom  — 
above  all,  freedom  of  speech,  of  conscience  and  worship.  Par- 
ents and  friends  had  destined  him  for  the  ministry,  but, — 

‘Coming  to  some  maturity  of  years,  and  perceiving  what  tyranny  had  invaded  the 
church,  that  he  who  would  take  orders  must  subscribe  slave,  and  take  an  oath  withal, 
which  unless  he  took  with  a conscience  that  would  retch,  he  must  either  straight  perjure, 
or  split  his  faith;  I thought  it  better  to  prefer  a blameless  silence  before  the  sacred  office 
of  speaking,  bought  and  begun  with  servitude  and  forswearing.’ 

Hence,  too, — from  the  endurance  of  the  God-idea,  from  the  fixed 
determination  to  live  nobly  and  act  grandly, — he  preserved  his 
moral  ardor  intact  from  the  withering  and  polluting  influences  of 
politics,  which  generally  extinguish  sentiment  and  imagination  in 
a sordid  and  calculating  selfishness. 

Can  we  expect  humor  here?  — Only  at  distant  intervals,  and 
then  with  strange  slips  into  the  grotesque,  as  in  the  heavy  witti- 
cisms of  the  devils  on  the  effect  of  their  artillery.  Thus  Satan 
seeing  the  confusion  of  the  angels,  calls  to  his  mates: 

‘O  Friends,  why  come  not  on  these  victors  proud? 

Ere  while  they  fierce  were  coming:  and  when  we 
To  entertain  them  fair  with  open  front 
And  breast  (what  could  we  more?)  propounded  terms 
Of  composition,  straight  they  changed  their  minds, 

Flew  off,  and  into  strange  vagaries  fell, 

As  they  would  dance ; yet  for  a dance  they  seem'd 
Somewhat  extravagant  and  wild.’ 

And  Belial  answers: 

‘Leader,  the  terms  we  sent  were  terms  of  weight, 

Of  hard  contents,  and  full  of  force  urged  home, 

Such  as  we  might  perceive  amused  them  all. 

And  stumbled  many;  who  receives  them  right, 

Had  need  from  head  to  foot  well  understand.’ 

Naturally,  his  habits  of  living  were  austere.  He  was  an  early 
riser,  and  abstemious  in  diet.  The  lyrist,  he  thought,  might 
indulge  in  wine,  and  in  a freer  life;  but  he  who  would  write  an 
epic  to  the  nations,  must  eat  beans  and  drink  water.  His  amuse- 
ments consisted  in  gardening,  in  exercise  with  the  sword,  and  in 
playing  on  the  organ.  Music,  he  insisted,  should  form  part  of 
a generous  education.  His  ear  for  it  was  acute;  and  his  voice, 
it  is  said,  was  sweet  and  harmonious.  In  youth,  handsome  to  a 


492  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


proverb,  he  was  called  the  lady  of  his  college.  The  simplicity  of 
his  later  years  accorded  with  his  inner  greatness.  He  listened 
every  morning  to  a chapter  from  the  Hebrew  Bible;  and,  after 
meditating  in  silence  on  what  he  had  heard,  studied  till  mid-day; 
then,  after  an  hour’s  exercise,  he  attuned  himself  to  majesty  and 
purity  of  thought  with  music,  and  resumed  his  studies  till  six. 

The  most  devout  man  of  his  time,  he  frequented  no  place  of 
worship.  He  was  perhaps  too  dissatisfied  with  the  clashing  sys- 
tems of  the  age  to  attach  himself  to  any  sect.  Finding  his  ideal 
in  none,  he  prayed  to  God  alone  : 

‘Thou,  O Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples , the  upright  heart , and  pure .’ 1 

The  discovery,  in  1823,  of  his  Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine 
excited  considerable  amazement  by  its  heterodox  opinions.  In 
this  he  avers  himself  an  anti-Trinitarian,  and  teaches  that  the  Son 
is  distinct  from  the  Father,  inferior  to  Him,  created  by  Him,  and 
afterwards  employed  by  Him  to  carry  on  the  creative  work.  He 
is  opposed,  as  were  most  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  to  the  doc- 
trine of  creation  out  of  nothing;  and  maintains  that,  since  there 
can  be  no  act  without  a passive  material  on  which  the  act  was 
exerted,  the  world  was  formed  out  of  a preexistent  substance. 
To  the  question,  What  and  whence  is  this  primary  substance?  he 
answers:  It  proceeded  from  God,  ‘an  efflux  of  the  Deity.’ 2 He 
differs  from  the  majority,  again,  in  the  rejection  of  infant  bap- 
tism, and  in  the  assertion  that  under  the  Gospel  no  time  is  ap- 
pointed for  public  worship,  but  that  the  observance  of  the  first 
day  of  the  week  rests  wholly  on  expediency  and  general  consent. 
On  two  other  points  he  satisfies  himself  with  the  prevalent  no- 
tions,— original  sin,  and  redemption  through  Christ. 

In  the  order  of  Providence,  the  highest  and  greatest  must  have 
more  or  less  sympathy  with  their  age.  Hence  his  controversial 
asperity.  Gentlemen  now  are  expected  to  dispute  with  an  elegant 
dignity.  In  those  days,  they  sought  to  devour  each  other,  or, 
failing  in  this,  to  cover  each  other  with  filth.  Some  of  his  offend- 
ers deserved  no  mercy.  Salmasius,  a hired  pedant,  disgorges 

1 Paradise  Lost:  Invocation. 

2 Those  who  represent,  with  Macaulay,  that  Milton  asserts  the  eternity  of  matter,  are 
in  error,  as  is  evident  from  the  following  passage,  than  which  nothing  could  be  more  ex- 
plicit: ‘That  matter,  I say,  should  have  existed  from  all  eternity,  is  inconceivable.  If, 
on  the  contrary,  it  did  not  exist  from  all  eternity,  it  is  difficult  to  understand  from  whence 
it  derives  its  origin.  There  remains,  therefore,  but  one  solution  of  the  difficulty,  for 
which,  moreover,  we  have  the  authority  of  Scripture,  namely,  that  all  things  are  of  God.’ 


MILTON. 


493 


upon  him  a torrent  of  calumny,  and  he  replies  with  a dictionary 
of  epithets  — rogue,  wretch,  idiot,  ass: 

‘You  who  know  so  many  tongues,  who  read  so  many  books,  who  write  so  much 
about  them,  you  are  yet  but  an  ass.’ 

Again : 

‘O  most  drivelling  of  asses,  you  come  ridden  by  a woman,  with  the  curled  heads  of 
bishops  whom  you  had  wounded.’ 

And  again: 

‘Doubt  not  that  you  are  reserved  for  the  same  end  as  Judas,  and  that,  driven  by 
despair  rather  than  repentance,  self-disgusted,  you  must  one  day  hang  yourself,  and  like 
your  rival  burst  asunder  in  your  belly.' 

Such  passages  every  admirer  of  Milton  must  lament.  When 
interests  of  infinite  moment  are  at  stake,  the  deeply  moved  souk 
will  speak  strongly.  The  general  strain  of  his  prose,  however, 
must  exalt  him,  notwithstanding  its  occasional  violence;  but  in 
the  more  congenial  sphere  of  poetry,  he  ever  appears  in  the. 
serene  strength,  the  sedate  patience,  which  was  proper  to  him. 

To  the  manners  and  spirit  of  his  age,  as  well  as  to  his  severe 
sanctitude,  is  due  his  conception  of  female  excellence  and  the 
relative  position  of  the  sexes: 

‘Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seem'd: 

For  contemplation  he  and  valour  form’d. 

For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace; 

He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him. 

His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declared 
Absolute  rule;  and  hyacinthine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clust’ring,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad: 

She,  as  a veil  down  to  the  slender  waist. 

Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishevell'd,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils;  which  imply’d 
Subjection,  but  required  with  gentle  sway, 

And  by  her  yielded,  by  him  best  received; 

Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride. 

And  sweet  reluctant  amorous  delay.’  * 

Milton’s  heart  lived  in  a sublime  solitude.  Disappointed  of  a 
companionship  there,  he  regarded  the  actual  woman  with  some- 
thing of  condescension,  and,  incapable  of  those  attentions  which 
make  companionship  sweet,  probably  exacted  a studious  respect. 
As  for  sensibility  and  tenderness,  it  was  essential  to  his  perfect- 
ness that  the  nature  should  be  quiet.  A great  mind  is  master  of 
its  enthusiasm, — the  less  perturbed,  the  closer  its  resemblance  to 


1 Paradise  Lost , IV:  Adam  and  Eve. 


494  PHILOSOPHIC  PERIOD  — REPRESENTATIVE  AUTHORS. 


the  Divine.  Its  emotion,  though  more  intense  and  enduring  than 
that  of  other  men,  is  calmer,  and  therefore  less  observed.  We 
have  seen  what  susceptibility  breathes  in  Milton’s  early  poetry, — 
not  light  or  gay,  indeed,  but  always  healthful  and  bright.  And 
later,  in  his  essay  on  Education , he  says: 

‘In  those  vernal  seasons  of  the  year  when  the  air  is  calm  and  pleasant,  it  were  an 
injury  and  sullenness  against  Nature  not  to  go  out  and  see  her  riches,  and  partake  in 
her  rejoicing  with  heaven  and  earth.’ 

When  old,  tried,  and  sightless,  he  could  turn  from  the  stormy 
scenery  of  the  infernal  regions,  and  luxuriate  in  the  loveliness 
of  Paradise,  the  innocent  joy  of  its  inhabitants.  There  is  no 
mistaking  the  fine  sense  of  beauty  and  the  pure  deep  affection  of 
these  exquisite  lines,  which  the  gentle  Eve  addresses  to  her  lover 
in  the  ‘shady  bowers’  of  Eden: 

‘Neither  breath  of  Morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds;  nor  rising  Sun 
On  this  delightful  land;  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 

Glist'ring  with  dew;  nor  fragrance  after  showers; 

Nor  grateful  ev’ning  mild;  nor  silent  Night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  Moon, 

Or  glitt'ring  star-light,  without  thee  is  sweet.’ 

An  Independent  in  politics  and  religion,  a hero,  a martyr,  a 
recluse,  a dweller  in  an  ideal  city,  standing  alone  and  aloof  above 
his  times,  and,  when  eyes  of  flesh  were  sightless,  wandering  the 
more  ‘where  the  Muses  haunt,’ — truly — 

‘Thy  soul  was  like  a star,  and  dwelt  apart.’ 

Influence. — Such  men  are  sent  as  soldiers  of  humanity. 
They  use  the  sacred  fire,  divinely  kindled  within  them,  not  to 
amuse  men  or  to  build  up  a reputation,  but  to  awaken  kindred 
greatness  in  other  souls.  What  service  Milton  has  rendered  to 
mankind  by  his  love  of  freedom  and  the  high,  brave  morals  he 
taught ! On  account  of  the  learning  necessary  to  their  full  com- 
prehension, his  works  will  never  be  popular  in  the  sense  in  which 
those  of  Shakespeare  are  so,  or  Bunyan,  or  Burns,  or  even  Pope 
and  Cowper;  but,  like  the  Organum , they  move  the  intellects 
which  move  the  world.  As  culture  spreads  and  approaches  their 
spiritual  heights,  the  more  they  will  reveal  their  efficacy  to 
purify,  invigorate,  and  delight;  the  more  will  man  aspire  to  emu- 
late the  zeal,  the  fortitude,  the  virtue,  the  toil,  the  heroism,  of 
their  author. 

It  is  a Chinese  maxim,  that  ‘a  sage  is  the  instructor  of  a hun- 


MILTON-. 


495 


dred  ages.’  Talk  much  with  such  a one,  and  you  acquire  his 
quality, — the  habit  of  looking  at  things  as  he.  From  him  pro- 
ceeds mental  and  moral  force,  will  he  or  not.  He  is  of  those  who 
make  a period,  as  well  as  mark  it;  who,  without  ceasing  to  help 
us  as  a cause,  help  us  also  as  an  effect;  who  reach  so  high,  that 
age  and  comparison  cannot  rob  them  of  power  to  inspire;  who 
turn,  by  their  moral  alchemy, 

‘The  common  dust 
Of  servile  opportunity  to  gold. 

Filling  the  soul  with  sentiments  august. 

The  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  holy,  and  the  just.’ 


INDEX. 


Abelard,  fame  and  influence,  87 ; and 
Eloise,  111;  on  ethical  good,  126; 
heresies,  132. 

ASlfric,  translates  Bible,  117. 

Albion,  ancient  name  of  Britain,  3. 

Alchemy,  128,  189,  256. 

Alchemist,  quoted  and  criticised,  447. 

Alcuin,  quoted,  86;  allusion  to,  148. 

Alexander,  115. 

Alfred,  laws  of,  61,  66;  position  in 
English  prose,  117;  biography  and 
criticism,  148-156. 

Alliteration,  92,  180. 

Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  quoted  and 
criticised,  427. 

Ancren  Riwle,  quoted,  117. 

Aneurin,  battle  ode  of,  17. 

Angelo,  Michael,  287. 

Angles,  coming  of,  6. 

Anglia,  settled,  7. 

Anglo-Norman  history  in  word- 
forms,  57. 

Anglo-Saxon  language.  See  Lan- 
guage. 

Anglo-Saxons,  origin,  21;  orders  of, 
2 1 ; basis  of  society,  22 ; character- 
istics, 22,  33 ; government,  23 ; fam- 
ily tie,  22;  culture,  23;  supersti- 
tions, 23 ; theology,  24 ; burial  cus- 
toms, 27 ; nomenclature  for  days  of 
the  week,  25 ; popular  philosophy, 
30 ; savagery,  33 ; laws  of,  34 ; com- 
pared with  Celts,  35 ; with  the  Nor- 
mans, 36;  persistent  sentiments, 
36;  language  of,  53. 

Anselm,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
influence  of,  12 ; quoted,  1 18 ; on  the 
being  of  God,  131. 

Antipodes,  popular  notions  of,  129, 
191. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  quoted,  378. 

Apology,  325. 

Aquinas,  Thomas,  perfects  scholasti- 
cism, 132. 

Arcadia,  quoted  and  criticised.  341. 

Ariosto,  287. 

Aristotle,  philosophy  of,  331 ; opposed 
by  Bruno,  331. 

32 


Arminius,  theology  of,  436. 

Arnold,  Dr.  Thomas,  quoted,  1. 

Art,  sovereignty  of,  145. 

Arthur,  legends  of,  7,  105,  107;  the 
death  of,  113;  a romance  favorite, 
120;  in  Fairy  Queen,  360. 

Aryas,  Aryan,  the  mother-race,  2; 
influence  on  language,  44,  49. 

Ascham,  Roger,  quoted,  292,  293 ; as 
critic,  321. 

Asculanus,  martyrdom  of,  189. 

Ask,  myth  of,  24. 

Asser,  quoted,  153,  156. 

Astrology,  127,  189,  256. 

As  You  Like  It,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 377. 

Atheism,  foolishness  of,  470. 

Augustine,  St.  ,on  total  depravity,  125. 

Bacon,  Sir  Francis,  quoted,  157 ; in- 
stitutes the  essay  form  of  composi- 
tion, 321 ; contributions  of,  to  the 
science  of  ethics,  328;  biography 
and  criticism,  456-472. 

Bacon,  Roger,  biography  and  criti- 
cism, 156-163. 

Baker’s  Chronicle,  434. 

Balder,  the  Good,  30. 

Ballad,  early,  247. 

Battle  of  Maldon,  91. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  literary  co- 
partnership, 416;  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 416. 

Beauty,  vivid  sense  of.  in  the  Re- 
naissance, 287 ; true  source  of,  366, 
370. 

Becket,  Thomas  a,  pilgrimages  to  the  * 
shrine  of,  216. 

Bede,  Alfred’s  translations  of,  117; 
biography  and  criticism,  145-8. 

Bedford,  Duke  of,  quoted,  240. 

Beowulf,  quoted  and  criticised,  95; 
allusion  to,  137. 

Berenger,  on  transubstantiation,  190. 

Berkin’s  Cases  of  Conscience,  437. 

Bernard,  St.,  quoted,  132. 

Bible,  influence  upon  English  thought 
and  language,  326;  translated  by 


497 


498 


INDEX. 


JElfric,  117:  by  Wvcliffe,  200;  by 
Tyndale,  327;  revised  by  Cover- 
dale,  327. 

Bishop  Golias,  79. 

Boadicea,  the  warrior-queen,  15. 

Boccaccio,  relation  to  the  Renais- 
sance, 174;  allusion  to,  287. 

Boethius’  Consolations  of  Philosophy, 
translated  by  Alfred,  150. 

Booh  of  Common  Prayer,  quoted,  276. 

Booh  of  Sentences,  132. 

Books,  manuscript  form  of  early,  and 
their  costliness,  83,  173,  237. 

Borde,  Andrew,  quoted,  330. 

Boyle,  quoted,  435. 

Breviary  of  Health,  quoted,  330. 

Britain,  geography  of,  1 ; area,  2 ; 
climate,  2;  political  divisions,  2; 
Caesar’s  invasion  of,  4 ; Roman  con- 
quest of,  4 ; Anglo-Saxon  conquest, 
5 ; introduction  of  Christianity  into, 
5;  Danish  conquest,  8;  Norman 
conquest,  8:  Celtic  period  of,  13; 
Danish  period,  18;  Norman  period, 
19;  Anglo-Saxon,  21. 

Britons,  prehistoric,  2;  heroism,  4; 
enervation  under  Roman  rule,  6; 
apply  to  the  Jutes  for  aid,  6;  dis- 
possessed by  the  Teutons,  7.  See 
Celts. 

Broken  Heart,  quoted  and  criticised, 

421. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  allusion  to  the 
Hydriotaphia  of,  100 : quoted  and 
criticised,  429 ; in  relation  to  ethics, 
437;  to  science,  440;  on  the  dig- 
nity and  destiny  of  man,  442. 

Bruno,  influence  and  martyrdom  of, 
329. 

Brut,  quoted  and  criticised,  112. 

Brutus,  legendary  founder  of  Brit- 
ain, 3. 

Bryant,  Thanatopsis,  100. 

Brynhild,  27,  35. 

Burbage,  an  actor,  374. 

Burke,  Edmund,  quoted,  145,  456. 

Burton,  Robert,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 427. 

Butler,  Samuel,  quoted,  408. 

Byron,  quoted,  347. 

Ca)dmon,  101 : biography  and  criti- 
cism, 139-145. 

Caesar,  Julius,  invades  Britain,  4; 
quoted,  15. 

Calvin,  John,  on  predestination, 
324. 

Cambridge  University,  174. 


Canterbury  Tales,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 2i6. 

Caractacus,  16. 

Carew,  Thomas,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 410. 

Cases  of  Conscience,  437. 

Castle  of  Knowledge,  330. 

Castle  of  Perseverance,  306. 

Cataline,  quoted  and  criticised,  452. 

Cavaliers,  the,  402. 

Caxton,  William,  243 ; biography  and 
criticism,  259-264. 

Celts,  migrations  of,  into  Europe,  3 ; 
as  Britons,  3;  environment,  13; 
customs,  14;  religion,  14;  acquired 
refinement,  15;  latent  qualities  of 
art,  16;  influence  on  English  na- 
tionality, 18,  138 ; on  English  lan- 
guage, 51, 

Chapman,  quoted,  425. 

Character  of  a Happy  Life,  413. 

Charlemagne,  as  legendary  hero,  104. 

Charles  I,  401. 

Charles  II,  402. 

Charon,  quoted,  158. 

Charon,  the  Stygian  ferryman,  101, 
452. 

Chaucer,  quoted,  166,  175;  in  what 
sense  the  father  of  English  poetry, 
187 ; biography  and  criticism,  204- 
232. 

Cheke,  321. 

Chevy  Chase,  old  ballad,  117. 

Chilling  worth,  435. 

Chinese  proverb,  39;  royalty,  196; 
printing,  244  {note) ; maxim,  494. 

Chivalry,  introduction  of,  10;  influ- 
ence, 106,  167. 

Christ,  power  of,  as  the  ideal  of 
humanity,  82 ; Decker’s  characteri- 
zation of,  425. 

Christian  Morals,  437. 

Christianity,  introduction  of,  into 
England,  36;  influence  on  Saxon 
poetry,  99.  See  Church. 

Chroniclers,  early,  their  method,  137. 

Church  of  Rome,  organizes  the  Eng- 
lish Church,  73;  commanding 
position  in  the  Middle-age,  73; 
monasticism,  75 ; the  mendicant 
Friars,  76;  moral  deterioration, 
78;  resistance  to,  in  England,  79; 
redeeming  excellences,  80;  condi- 
tion in  the  fourteenth  century,  171 ; 
popular  feeling  against,  172;  agen- 
cy in  the  abolition  of  slavery,  173; 
state  of,  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
238;  persecutions,  242. 


INDEX. 


499 


Cistercians,  the,  76. 

Clergy,  the.  See  Church. 

Climate  and  language,  45. 

Club  Parliament,  the,  235. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  quoted, 
328,  347,  373. 

Colet,  Dean,  289. 

Combat,  trial  by,  61. 

Comines,  quoted,  234. 

Composition,  superiority  of  Saxon 
words  in,  58;  importance  of  meth- 
od in,  338. 

Compurgation,  custom  of,  60. 

Comus,  quoted  and  criticised,  478. 

Confessio  Amantis , 182. 

Conscience,  393. 

Conversation,  the  law  of,  376. 

Copernicus,  329. 

Court  of  the  Hundred,  60;  of  the 
County,  60. 

Courts  of  Love,  the,  107. 

Council  of  Sens,  87. 

Coverdale,  revises  New  Testament, 
327. 

Cranmer,  as  reformer,  279 ; Bible  of, 
327;  quoted,  350. 

Creation,  process  of  the  Divine,  131, 
492. 

Creeds,  the  age  of,  435. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  402;  quoted,  403; 
characterized,  433. 

Cromwell,  Thomas,  quoted,  270; 
Bible,  327. 

Crusades,  influence  of,  12. 

Culture,  end  of,  392. 

Custom,  influence  of,  157. 

Cymbeline,  or  Cunobelin,  15. 

Cymbeline , quoted,  378. 

Daisy,  the,  226.  230. 

Dance  of  Death,  246. 

Daniel,  Samuel,  quoted,  302;  chron- 
icler, 323. 

Danish  Conquest,  8;  Caesar  quoted 
concerning,  15;  influence,  18,  52. 

Dante,  quoted,  79,  198. 

Dark  Ages,  the,  185. 

Death,  universal  sense  of,  100.  413, 
414;  popular  explanation  of  the 
origin  of,  122;  reflections  on,  28, 
146,  391,  432,  433,  470. 

Decker,  Thomas,  quoted,  425. 

Defense  of  Poesy,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 342. 

Degerando,  quoted,  471. 

Deluge,  305. 

Descartes,  philosophy  of,  441. 

Destiny,  Teutonic  belief  in,  30,  98. 


Destruction  of  Troy,  245. 

Devil,  the,  123.  See  Satan,  and 
Witchcraft. 

Dialects,  46. 

Diodorus,  concerning  the  Gauls,  17. 

D’lsraeli,  Isaac,  quoted,  139. 

Donne,  Dr.  John,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 412. 

Dooms  of  Alfred,  154. 

Douglas,  Gawin,  quoted,  307. 

Drama,  product  of  the  English  Re- 
naissance, 304;  origin  and  growth, 
304;  the  Mysteries,  304;  the  Mo- 
ralities, 305 ; the  Interlude,  307 : 
first  English  comedy,  308;  first 
English  tragedy,  309;  ascendancy 
of,  311:  the  theatre,  311;  the  Uni- 
ties, 320 ; how  affected  by  Puritan- 
ism, 415. 

Drake,  explorer,  267. 

Draper,  Dr.  John  W.,  quoted,  463 
{note). 

Drayton,  Michael,  quoted,  302. 

Druids,  the,  14. 

Drummond,  of  Ilawthornden,  quoted, 
413. 

Drunkenness,  107. 

Drvden,  John,  quoted,  472. 

Duchess  of  Malfi,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 423. 

Dunbar,  William,  quoted,  247. 

Duty,  the  idea  of  fundamental  to 
the  Germanic  race,  36,  276. 

Dwarfs,  the,  25. 

Ecclesiastical  History  of  the  English 
Nation,  Bede’s,  146;  Alfred’s 
translation,  149. 

Ecclesiastical  Polity,  325. 

Edda,  the.  143,  432. 

Eden,  the  garden  of,  196. 

Edward,  the  Confessor,  8,  128,  330. 

Edward  I,  jury  under,  61. 

Edward  II,  weakness  of,  165;  brutal- 
ity, 168. 

Edward  II.  quoted  and  criticised, 
314. 

Edward  III,  order  of,  189. 

Edward  IV,  violence,  233;  charter, 
257. 

Edward  VI,  counsellors  of,  265. 

El  Dorado,  352. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  administration  of, 
266. 

Embla,  myth  of,  24. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  quoted,  402. 

England,  geography  of,  1,  2;  etymol- 
ogy of  name,  7 ; political  and 


•500 


INDEX. 


social  development  of,  in  the 
Formative  Period,  60 ; in  the  four- 
teenth century,  164;  in  the  fif- 
teenth, 233;  in  the  sixteenth,  265; 
in  the  seventeenth,  401.  See  Brit- 
ain. 

English  language,  effect  of  Conquest 
upon,  11;  persistency  of,  12;  ele- 
ments, 51;  basis,  53;  originally 
inflected,  53;  transition,  54;  pro- 
gress of,  illustrated,  55;  organic 
features,  56 ; history  in  word-forms 
of,  57;  superiority  of  Saxon,  57; 
general  view  of,  59;  state  of,  in 
thirteenth  century,  88 ; in  the 
fourteenth,  175;  in  the  fifteenth, 
244;  in  the  sixteenth,  293-296. 

Envy,  Spenser’s  portrait  of,  365. 

Epithalamion , quoted  and  criticised, 
367. 

Erasmus,  quoted,  275,  289,  290,  324. 

Erigena,  on  hell-fire,  125 ; a Platon- 
ist,  130. 

Essex,  settled,  6. 

Ethics,  condition  of,  in  theological 
ages,  126,  191,  256,  327;  funda- 
mental distinctions  of,  126;  basis 
of,  according  to  Scotus,  126;  ac- 
cording to  Abelard,  126;  accord- 
ing to  Occam,  191;  true  basis  of, 
327;  gradual  severance  from  the- 
ology, 437;  method  of,  suggested 
by  Bacon,  437. 

Eucharist,  the,  191. 

Euphuism,  345. 

Every  Man,  306. 

Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  quoted 
and  criticised,  446. 

Evil,  popular  genesis  of,  191. 

Evolution  of  language,  40. 

Exclusive  Salvation,  effect  of  belief 
in,  328. 

Fabliaux,  the,  108. 

Fabyan,  Robert,  quoted,  254. 

Fairy  Queen,  quoted  and  criticised, 
285. 

Faithful  Shepherdess,  quoted  and 
criticised,  418. 

Fall  of  Princes,  245. 

False  One,  quoted  and  criticised, 
419. 

Fame,  transitoriness  of,  209. 

Famous  History  of  Fryer  Bacon,  161. 

Fancy,  the  Celtic,  17. 

Fate,  right  use  of,  32. 

Fathers,  the  Christian,  and  philoso- 
phy, 130;  evanescence  of,  332. 


Faustus,  quoted  and  criticised,  315. 

Feltham’s  Resolves,  437. 

Feudalism,  introduction  and  charac- 
ter of,  9,  1 0 ; evanescence  of,  332. 

Fiction,  romantic,  origin  of,  102. 

Fight  at  Finsburg,  war-song,  99. 

Fletcher,  Giles,  413. 

Fletcher,  John.  See  Beaumont. 

Florent,  quoted  and  criticised,  185. 

Ford,  John,  quoted  and  character- 
ized, 421. 

Formative  Period,  the  general  view 
of,  192. 

Fortescue,  236,  245,  253. 

Four  P's,  quoted  and  criticised,  307. 

Fox’s  Book  of  Martyrs,  quoted,  277. 

France,  genesis  of  modern,  46. 

Free  agency,  392. 

Freeman,  Edward  A.,  quoted,  148. 

French  language,  supersedes  Eng- 
lish, 10;  formation  of,  46,  47; 
influence,  52;  predominance,  88; 
dialects,  110;  decline  of,  in  Eng- 
land, 175. 

French  poetry,  introduction  of,  into 
England,  11;  predominance,  102; 
illustrated,  110;  decline,  186. 

Friar,  the,  76;  Chaucer’s  portrait  of, 
220,  227. 

Froissart,  174,  182. 

Froude,  James  Anthony,  quoted,  60, 
164. 

Fuller,  Doctor,  428,  444. 

Future,  the,  a vision  of,  340. 

Galileo,  329,  438. 

Games  and  Gambling  in  Early  Eng- 
land, 70. 

Genius  and  Talent,  147,  329. 

Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  119. 

Germans,  origin  of,  21;  character- 
ized, 46 ; language  of,  50. 

Gesta  Romanorum,  discussed  and 
quoted,  107. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  quoted,  150. 

Gilbert,  on  magnetism,  330. 

Gleeman,  Saxon  minstrel,  90. 

God,  the  existence  of,  131,  133,  441; 
essence  of,  373 ; Plato’s  conception 
of,  285. 

Goethe,  quoted,  60;  Faust  of,  318. 

Gorboduc,  characterized  and  quoted, 
30. 

Gosson,  Stephen,  quoted,  322. 

Gower,  Thomas,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 182,  190. 

Graal,  the  Holy,  105. 

Grave,  the,  100,  137. 


INDEX. 


501 


Greek  language,  50. 

Greek  learning,  284. 

Greek  literature,  244. 

Greeks,  characterized,  44,  46. 

Greene,  Robert,  321,  374. 

Gregory,  36,  37,  151. 

Ground  of  Arts,  330. 

Guizot,  quoted,  265. 

Hakluyt,  Richard,  321. 

Hales,  Dr.  Alexander,  133,  435. 

Hall,  Bishop,  quoted,  428. 

Hallam,  Henry,  quoted,  358,  459. 
Hamlet,  379,  386. 

Happiness,  Decker’s  conception  of, 

425. 

Harrison,  quoted,  268,  291. 

Harvey,  439. 

Hastings,  battle  of,  9. 

Havelock,  107. 

Hell,  29,  83,  124,  141,  475;  Milton’s, 
480. 

Hell-gates,  482. 

Henry  I,  and  Saxon  dynasty,  12; 

charter  granted  by,  63. 

Henry  II,  reign  of,  67;  and  priests, 

79. 

Henry  II,  quoted,  376. 

Henry  III,  murders  under,  79;  pro- 
clamation of,  in  vernacular,  89. 
Henry  IV,  inaugurates  Lancastrian 
rule,  233. 

Henry  IV,  quoted,  380. 

Henry  V,  his  dream  of  empire  in 
France,  233;  quoted  on  progress 
of  language,  244. 

Henry  VI,  career  of,  233. 

Henry  VII,  marks  a new  era,  234. 
Henry  VIII,  tyranny  of,  265 ; agency 
of,  in  the  Reformation,  278;  and 
medical  science,  330. 

Heptarchy,  formation  of,  7. 

Herbert,  George,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 413. 

Heresy,  123,  127,  438. 

Hero,  the,  of  the  Middle  Ages,  95, 

249. 

Herrick,  Robert,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 410. 

Hevwood,  Thomas,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 307;  quoted,  373. 

Highways  in  thirteenth  century,  69. 
Hill,  Thomas,  330. 

History,  method  of,  in  the  ages  of 
faith,  118,  187,  254,  323;  true  con- 
ception of,  188;  partisan  character 
of,  434. 

Holinshed,  270,  321,  323. 


Holy  Graal,  the,  105. 

Holy  Sepulchre,  the  church  of,  195. 
Homer,  quoted,  156;  translated  by 
Chapman,  425. 

Hooker,  Richard,  quoted,  325 ; influ- 
ence on  ethics.  328 ; biography  and 
criticism,  347-351. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  298. 

House  of  Fame,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 209. 

Houses,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  69,  166, 
236. 

Hudibras,  quoted,  408. 

Hume,  David,  quoted,  60,  351. 
Hundred,  court  of.  60. 

Hundred  Years’  War,  233. 
Hydriotapliia,  100. 

Ideal,  the,  law  of,  95;  power  and 
necessity  of,  340,  372. 

Idealization,  161. 

II  Penseroso,  quoted  and  criticised, 

477. 

Imagination,  character  of  Northern, 
100;  activity  of,  in  the  infancy  of 
races,  102. 

Imposture  in  the  Roman  Church, 
238. 

Indo-European  races,  49 ; languages, 

49-51. 

Induction,  the,  quoted  and  criticised, 

310. 

Influence,  immortality  of,  156.  203. 
Inquiries  into  Vulgar  Frrors,  quoted, 

440. 

Instauratio  Magna,  457. 

Interlude,  the,  307. 

Ireland,  geography  of,  1,  2;  subju- 
gation of,  164;  barbarism,  403. 
Irish,  the  ancient,  3,  14. 

Italian  language,  46,  47;  literature, 
287. 

James,  of  Scotland,  quoted,  247. 
James  I,  of  England,  401. 

Jewel,  Bishop,  325. 

Jew  of  Malta,  quoted  and  criticised, 

314. 

Jews,  as  capitalists,  69;  their  expul- 
sion, 70. 

John  of  Salisbury,  quoted,  87. 
Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  quoted,  48, 

444. 

Jonson,  Ben,  398,  416;  biography 
and  criticism,  444r-456. 

Judith,  quoted,  99. 

Jury,  trial  by,  61. 

Jutes,  coming  of,  6. 


502 


INDEX. 


Kent,  settled,  6. 

Kepler,  laws  of,  438. 

King  Horn,  107,  115. 

King  Lear,  120. 

King  Lear,  378,  383. 

King’s  Evil,  128. 

Koran,  the,  327. 

Labor  and  Capital,  169. 

Lackpenny,  quoted,  246. 

K Allegro,  quoted  and  criticised,  477. 

Land  of  Cockaigne,  115. 

Langland,  William,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 177. 

Language,  fossil  history  in,  11;  mys- 
tery of,  39;  origin,  40;  legends 
concerning,  40,  41 ; principles  of 
development,  41;  diversities,  43; 
dialects,  46 ; idioms,  48 ; classifica- 
tion, 49. 

Langue  D’Oc,  110. 

Langue  D’Oyl,  110. 

Latimer,  Bishop,  quoted,  271,  273, 
275,  277,  292,  326. 

Latin  race,  46 ; language,  47,  52, 100, 
137, 175;  versification  of,  108.  See 
Learning  and  Renaissance. 

Layamon,  quoted,  112. 

Lawyer,  the,  popular  hatred  of,  in 
fourteenth  century,  178 ; Chaucer’s 
portrait  of,  220,  227. 

Learning,  state  of,  during  Formative 
Period,  82;  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, 173;  in  the  fifteenth,  242;  in 
the  sixteenth,  284. 

Legends,  40,  41 ; formation  of,  105. 

Liberty  of  Prophesying,  436. 

Life,  Saxon  conception  of,  29,  37;  a 
dream,  385,  391 ; true  mode  of 
estimating,  431,  469;  on  the  con- 
duct of,  437. 

Life  of  Richard  III,  335. 

Lily,  John,  quoted,  321. 

Literature,  how  affected  during  For- 
mative Period,  193;  and  life,  272; 
eras  of,  how  discriminated,  444. 

Lollards,  172.  See  Religion. 

Lombard,  Peter,  129,  137. 

Long  Parliament,  the,  402. 

Lord’s  Prayer,  versions  of,  in  succes- 
sive centuries,  55,  56,  175,  244. 

Love,  idealized  by  the  worship  of  the 
Virgin,  106;  in  romance  poetry, 
105,  110,  181;  woes  of,  212;  power 
of,  213;  apostrophe  to,  344;  Bacon 
concerning,  464:  Jonson,  453. 

Love-Courts,  the,  182. 

Luther,  Martin,  272,  273,  324. 


Lydgate,  John,  quoted  and  criticised, 
245. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  B.,  462  (note), 
492  (note). 

Macbeth,  quoted,  380;  and  criticised, 
384. 

Mad  Lover,  quoted  and  criticised, 
419. 

Magna  Charta,  63. 

Maid  of  Orleans,  290. 

Maisters  of  Oxford’s  Catechism,  127. 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  quoted  and 
criticised,  253. 

Mammon,  palace  of,  363. 

Man,  creation  of,  in  Norse  mythologv, 
24. 

Mandeville,  Sir  John,  biography  and 
criticism,  194-199. 

Manning,  Robert,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 180. 

Map,  Walter,  79. 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  quoted  and 
criticised,  313. 

Marriage,  in  the  age  of  chivalry,  107 ; 
song  of,  367;  reflections  on,  399, 

429,  432,  464. 

Marston,  John,  quoted,  426. 

Mary,  Bloody,  266. 

Maryland,  statute  of,  406. 

Mass,  ceremonial  of  the,  240. 
Massinger,  Philip,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 420. 

Mathematics  in  thirteenth  century, 

127. 

Matter  and  spirit,  unity  of,  492. 
May-day,  237,  272. 

Medicine,  theory  and  practice  of,. 

128,  189,  257. 

Meditations,  quoted,  428. 
Melancholy,  the  inspiration  of  genius,. 

430. 

Mercia,  settled,  7. 

Merlin,  legend  of,  7 ; prophecy  of,  120. 
Metaphor,  discussed  and  illustrated,. 
41;  the  language  of  excitement,. 
396. 

Metre,  in  Chaucer,  206. 

Middleton,  Thomas,  quoted,  426. 
Midland  dialect,  54. 

Midsummer  Night’s  Dream,  quoted 
and  criticised,  389. 

Milton,  John,  141,  199,  372,  404,  415, 
436 ; biography  and  criticism,  472- 
495. 

Mirror  for  Magistrates,  310. 
Monasteries,  the,  76,  174,  241.  See 
Religion. 


INDEX. 


503 


Monasticism,  some  beautiful  aspects 
of,  75,  84. 

Monks,  75,  226,  241.  See  Church. 
Months,  names  of,  15. 

Moralities,  the,  306. 

Morals.  See  Ethics. 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  269,  270,  290,  321 ; 

biography  and  criticism,  334-40. 
Morte  d'  Arthur,  quoted,  253. 
Mulcaster,  quoted,  295,  321. 
Mundinus,  190. 

Muspel,  24. 

Mysteries,  the,  304. 

Mythology,  Norse,  30. 

Myths,  radical  similarity  of,  103. 

Napier,  439. 

Nash,  Thomas,  321. 

Nature,  love  of,  116,  238;  in  Chau- 
cer, 208,  226,  229,  230. 

New  Atlantis , 459. 

New  Hampshire,  statute  of,  406. 
Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  438. 

Niflheim,  24. 

Nominalism,  131,  188. 

Normans,  invade  Britain,  8;  effects 
of  invasion,  9;  culture  and  influ- 
ence of,  19 ; language  of,  52. 
Northmen,  the,  8,  33. 
Northumberland,  settled,  7, 
Nut-brown  Maid , 117,  245. 

Occam,  188,  191,  327. 

Occleve,  Thomas,  245. 

Odin,  24,  25,  104. 

Onomatopoeia,  4t. 

Opus  Majus , 157. 

Original  English,  53. 

Originality,  395. 

Orm,  113. 

Ormulum,  quoted,  114,  137. 

Orosius’  Universal  History , 149. 
Orpheus  and  his  harp,  legend  of,  151. 
Othello,  quoted,  378;  and  criticised, 
382. 

Owl  and  Nightingale,  116,  137. 
Oxford,  university  of,  87,  174,  242, 
289. 

Paganism  and  Christianity,  124. 
Palamon  and,  Arcite,  quoted  and 
criticised,  217. 

Paradise,  the  Norse,  28,  83. 

Paradise  Lost,  quoted  and  criticised, 
480. 

Paradise  Regained,  487. 

Paraphrase,  by  Caedmon,  140. 

Paris,  Matthew,  78,  119. 


Paris,  influence  of  university  of,  87. 

Parliament,  rise  and  development  of, 
62,  165,  234,  265,  401. 

Parson,  Chaucer’s  portrait  of  the,  223. 

Pascal,  quoted,  158. 

Passionate  Pilgrim,  375. 

Passionate  Shepherd,  quoted,  318. 

Paston  Letters,  252. 

Pathway  of  Knowledge,  330. 

Pecock,  Reynold,  245,  255. 

Pelagius,  theological  tenets  of,  125. 

Perfection,  the  desire  of,  191. 

Persecution,  242,  328. 

Persian  language,50 ; mythology,  104. 

Personification,  102. 

Petrarch,  concerning  the  Church, 
171;  debt  of  the  Renaissance  to, 
174;  quoted,  330. 

Philaster,  quoted  and  criticised,  416. 

Philosophy,  characterization  of,  from 
Proclus  to  Bacon,  129;  the  Scho- 
lastic, 130 ; Realistic  and  Nominal- 
istic schools  of,  131 ; state  of,  in 
the  fourteenth  century,  188;  in  the 
fifteenth,  257;  in  the  sixteenth, 
331 ; in  the  seventeenth,  440. 

Phoenix , quoted,  93. 

Physician,  Chaucer’s  portrait  of  the, 
227. 

Piets,  the,  5. 

Piers  the  Ploughman,  172. 

Piety,  essential  to  character,  154. 

Plantagenet,  233. 

Plato,  his  doctrine  of  Ideas,  131 ; 
spirit  and  influence  of  his  philoso- 
phy, 284. 

Plowman’s  Creed,  180. 

Poetry,  earliest  form  of  literature, 
89;  Saxon,  91;  religious  tone  of, 
in  England,  99;  romantic,  108; 
characterization  of,  in  fourteenth 
century,  176;  low  state  of  English, 
in  fifteenth  century,  245:  revival 
of,  298;  sentimentalism  of,  409. 

Politics.  See  England. 

Prayer,  power  of,  431. 

Predestination,  defined,  324. 

Presbyterians,  436. 

Printing,  origin  of,  244  {note). 

Prose,  order  of  production,  117; 
parentage  of  English,  117;  general 
view  of,  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
187;  in  the  fifteenth,  252;  in  the 
sixteenth,  321 ; in  the  seventeenth, 
427.  See  History,  Theology,  Eth- 
ics, Science,  Philosophy. 

Proverbs,  of  Alfred,  152. 

Pulci,  quoted,  288. 


504 


INDEX. 


Puritans,  and  the  theatre,  311 : reli- 
gious bias  of,  325 ; origin  and 
character,  404;  emigration  of,  to 
America,  406;  intolerance,  407; 
superstition,  408 ; poet  of,  415. 

Purple  Island , 413. 

Puttenham,  George,  298,  321. 

Quadrivium,  the,  87. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  158,  323;  biog- 
raphy and  criticism,  351-356. 

Raven , the,  quoted,  109. 

Realism,  131,  188. 

Record,  William,  330. 

Reformation,  premonitions  of,  36,  80, 
172,  242;  accomplishment  of,  272; 
beneficent  results  of,  280 ; evil 
effects,  281. 

Religion,  the  sentiment  of,  funda- 
mental to  the  English  mind,  36; 
influence  of,  upon  poetry  and  lit- 
erature, 80,  99;  necessity  of,  272; 
the  Puritan,  404.  See  Church. 

Renaissance,  the,  nature  and  charac- 
teristics of,  284;  in  Italy,  287;  in 
England,  289 ; results  of,  .333.  See 
Learning. 

Resolves,  437. 

Restoration,  the,  402. 

Resume,  135,  192,  258,  322,  442. 

Retribution,  394,  472. 

Rhythm,  universal,  87;  in  Chaucer, 
207. 

Richard  II,  165. 

Richard  III,  233,  240. 

Ridley,  martyrdom  of,  277. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  195. 

Ritson,  Joseph,  247. 

Ritter,  quoted,  1. 

Robert  of  Gloucester,  113,  115. 

Robin  Hood,  117,  249. 

Romance,  nations  and  languages,  46 ; 
fiction,  102,  105;  poetry,  108; 
poets,  110;  prose,  245,  253. 

Romans,  conquest  of  Britain  by,  and 
its  influence,  4,  5,  15. 

Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  quoted  and 
criticised,  208. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  quoted,  376,  379. 

Roscelin,  131. 

Roundheads,  the,  402. 

Rovvena,  legend  of,  7. 

Runes,  the,  23. 

Ruin,  the,  101. 

Sackville,  Thomas,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 309. 


Sad  Shepherd,  quoted  and  criticised, 
451. 

Samson  Agonistes,  characterized,  487. 

Santre,  William,  first  English  mar- 
tyr, 242. 

Satan,  72,  240,  488.  See  Witchcraft. 

Satirists,  Anglo-Saxon,  115. 

Saxon  laws,  34;  Chronicle,  117, 121; 
poetry,  91. 

Scandinavian  people,  8 {note)',  lan- 
guage, 50. 

Scepticism,  services  of,  351. 

Scholasticism,  130,  257,  332. 

Schoolmen,  130,  257. 

School  of  Abuse,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 322. 

School  of  Skill,  330. 

Science,  inception  of,  126;  astrology 
and  alchemy  the  principal  part  of, 
189;  also,  256;  dawn  of,  on  the 
Continent,  329 ; in  England,  439. 

Scotland,  geography  of,  1,  2;  politi- 
cal and  social  condition,  164,  403. 

Scott,  Walter,  quoted,  11. 

Scotts,  the,  6. 

Scotus,  Duns,  on  moral  good,  126; 
on  reason  and  faith,  133,  191. 

Scriptorium,  the,  84. 

Selden’s  Table  Talk,  434,  437. 

Seven  Deadly  Sins,  the,  170. 

Seven  Joys  of  the  Virgin,  254. 

Seven  Sleepers,  legend  of,  195. 

Shakespeare,  William,  quoted,  44, 
108,  128,  237,  283,  294,  296,  347, 
488 ; biography  and  criticism,  373- 
400. 

Shirley,  James,  427. 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  on  the  merits  of 
English,  294;  position  of,  301;  on 
the  equipments  of  the  theatre,  312; 
biography  and  criticism,  341-347. 

Siege  of  Thebes,  245. 

Sigurd,  27. 

Silent  Woman,  quoted  and  criticised, 
448. 

Silures,  the,  5. 

Sixteenth  Century,  expansive  force 
of,  334. 

Skelton,  John,  quoted  and  criticised, 
297. 

Skrymer,  Norse  giant,  31. 

Slavery,  and  the  Saxons,  63 ; and  the 
Normans,  64;  in  Ireland,  68;  and 
the  Church,  81. 

Sleep,  invocation  to,  344 ; the  god  of. 
and  his  dwelling,  361. 

Society,  English,  aspects  of,  from 
the  ninth  to  the  thirteenth  century, 


INDEX. 


505 


63;  in  the  fourteenth,  165;  in  the 
fifteenth,  234;  in  the  sixteenth, 
267;  in  the  seventeenth,  403. 

Socrates,  quoted,  157. 

Solomon  and  Saturn,  quoted,  126. 

Song  of  Aldhelin,  quoted,  109. 

Sonnet,  the,  299. 

Soul,  the,  purgatory  of,  100 ; immor- 
tality of,  133;  Plato’s  figure  of, 
286. 

Soul's  Complaint,  quoted,  101. 

Soul's  Errand,  quoted,  354. 

Southern  dialect,  54. 

Speech,  Chaucer’s  definition  of,  210. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  biography  and 
criticism,  358-373. 

Stael,  Madame  de,  quoted,  430  (note). 

Stanihurst,  quoted,  322. 

Sternhold,  quoted,  302. 

Stonehenge,  14. 

Story,  W.  W.,  quoted,  296. 

Stubbes,  quoted,  271. 

Suckling,  Sir  John,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 411. 

Superstitions,  71,  122,  127. 

Surgery,  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
190. 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 298. 

Sussex  settled,  6. 

Syllogism,  defined  and  illustrated, 
134. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  quoted,  265. 

Table-Talk,  437. 

Tacitus,  quoted,  13,  33,  105. 

Taine,  H.  A.,  463  (note),  489  (note). 

Tamburlaine  the  Great,  quoted  and 
criticised,  313,  314,  319. 

Tasso,  287. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 430. 

Tempest,  the,  quoted,  377,  888. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  quoted,  204. 

Teutons,  the,  a generic  race,  21,  46; 
language  of,  50. 

Thanatopsis,  the,  100. 

Theatre,  the  early,  311. 

Theodore,  founds  the  English  Church, 

68. 

Theodosius,  Roman  general,  6. 

Thomson,  James,  quoted,  334,  358. 

Thor,  Norse  god,  26,  31. 

Thought,  English,  limitary  tone  of, 
372. 

Tolerance,  a late  virtue,  336. 

Tory,  the,  402. 

Town,  rise  of  the  English,  65. 


Transition  English,  54. 
Transubstantiation,  190. 

Treatise  of  Religion,  413. 

Trevisa,  quoted,  176. 

Trinity  College,  291. 

Trivium,  the,  86. 

Troilus  and  Creseide,  quoted  and 
criticised,  211. 

Troubadours,  the,  110. 

Trouveres,  the,  110. 

Trumpet  of  Death,  183. 

Truth,  no  absolute  criterion  of,  409; 

sure  to  triumph.  430. 

Tudor  dynasty,  233. 

Tyndale,  William,  294,  327. 

Twa  Corbies,  quoted  and  character- 
ized, 335. 

Udall,  Nicholas,  308. 

Unities,  the  dramatic,  320. 
University,  of  Cambridge,  174,  290: 
of  Oxford,  87,  174,  242,  244,  289. 
290;  of  Paris,  87. 

Utilitarianism,  dangers  of,  469,  471. 
Utopia,  335. 

Valhalla,  Norse  paradise,  28,  33. 
Valkyries,  the,  28  (note). 

Van  Lennep,  quoted,  395. 

Velleda,  German  prophetess,  105. 
Venus  and  Adonis,  375. 

Vergil,  120. 

Virgil,  quoted,  101. 

Virgin  Mary,  worship  of,  and  its  in- 
fluence, 106. 

Virtue,  126,  397,  479.  490. 

Volpone,  quoted  and  criticised,  449. 
Vortigern,  King  of  the  Britons,  7. 

Wales,  geography  of,  1,  2;  a refuge 
for  Christianity,  7;  literature  of, 
17;  language,  49;  annexation  of, 
135;  princes  of,  233. 

Waller,  Edmund,  quoted,  487. 

War  of  the  Roses,  233. 

Warton,  Thomas,  quoted,  233. 
Webster,  John,  quoted  and  criticised, 
422. 

Week,  nomenclature  of  days  of,  25. 
Wessex  settled,  6;  supremacy  of,  7. 
Whetstone  of  Wit,  330. 

Whig,  the,  402. 

Whipple,  Edwin  P.,  quoted,  455. 
White  Devil,  quoted  and  criticised, 

422. 

Wife  of  Bath,  quoted  and  criticised, 

219. 

William  the  Conqueror,  9,  79. 


506 


INDEX. 


Wilson,  Arthur,  quoted,  295. 

Witan,  the,  23,  62. 

Witch,  Sabbath  of  the,  283;  method 
of  trying  the,  408. 

Witchcraft,  240,  281,  408. 

Wither,  George,  quoted  and  criti- 
cised, 409. 

Wodin.  See  Odin. 

Woman,  position  of,  among  the  Sax- 


ons, 35;  in  romance  poetry,  105; 
how  affected  by  Christianity,  106 
(and  note) ; types  of,  219,  222;  in 
Shakespeare,  376;  Milton’s  ideal 
of,  493. 

Wordsworth,  William,  quoted,  14, 225. 

Wotton,  Sir  Henry,  413. 

Wycliffe,  John,  172,  190;  biography 
and  criticism,  199-203. 


I 


